


It Takes All Sorts

by aWICKEDgiraffe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (Just kidding), Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Bullying, Gen, I'm just making up all of this as I go along, Mental Coercion, Mycroft has a Silver Tongue, Mycroft is a very special boy, Mycroft is sometimes a Bit Not Good, Mycroft talks to animals, Mycroft-centric, Potterlock, Premeditated plots are for babies!, kid!mycroft, witch!Anthea, wizard!Lestrade, wizard!Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-27 15:58:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aWICKEDgiraffe/pseuds/aWICKEDgiraffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he is eleven, Mycroft's perfect world—the perfect vision he had of himself—literally comes crashing down in his back garden in the form of a man claiming to be a wizard. </p><p>A Potterlock kidfic centered on Mycroft, from his beginnings to his first night at Hogwarts.  Part one in the series. Now with new title!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Appetence

**Author's Note:**

> Written in increments, posted steadily on my Tumblr. Come follow me at aufanficfanatic.tumblr.com to get this and other Sherlock AU ficlets! I usually post sections of chapters of random stories, and occasionally reblog cool stuff.

 

Mycroft Holmes was a gifted little boy.  He'd known it from the time he was three years old.  He was clever and cunning in a way most toddlers just simply weren’t; after all, he could look at a person and just _know_ how to get them to do what he wanted. It was instinctual, almost, and most adults didn’t even notice his manipulations.  How could they believe a toddler to be capable of such subterfuge, after all?

Take the nanny, for instance. She was a childless widower who took up the profession to delude herself into thinking that the children she cared for were her own.  As a toddler, he couldn’t quite diagnose her mental affliction so elegantly as all that, but it was enough to simply notice her tendency to call him “my darling,” and “my dear boy,” or other such motherly endearments.  It was enough to observe that when he deliberately called for her or appealed to her maternal instincts (by calling for her when he was alone, or intentionally pricking his finger so she'd have a wound to tend, etcetera) he was quite likely to get extra sweeties after supper.

In the case of the cook, things were even simpler. Mycroft noticed early on that the man was fond of a certain drink that came in big, dark-coloured bottles.  After drinking this liquid, the old man's face would get ruddy and he'd fall asleep in front of the woodstove, leaving his bounty of delicious pastries free for the sticky-fingers of a certain ginger toddler.  After a bit of reconnaissance, Mycroft procured a key to the cabinet where Father kept  _his_ dark-coloured bottles and started leaving them out for the cook to find; ensuring a steady supply of liquid for the cook and a steady supply of raspberry scones for Mycroft. (Well, until the cook got _fired_ that is.)

Practice made perfect, and by age four Mycroft could play any adult in the room as beautifully as his mother played the violin.  Unfortunately, being still just a toddler back then, the ends to his means had been quite lacking in ambition—he was content only to get out of his naps and score extra sweets from the nanny and the cook. Even despite his unique talent, Mycroft couldn’t yet understand how _different_ he truly was.  Not even when his parents would exchange strange looks, or when his nanny would whisper in his ear at night, “Sh-sh.  Such a special child you are, my Mycroft.” Not yet.  Not then.  

 

* * *

  

The beginning of the end of this misinformed opinion came with the beginning of school.  Being in constant contact with “regular” children gave Mycroft a reference off of which to form a new opinion—he wasn’t anything _like_ a normal child.  He was cleverer, yes, but it was _more_ than that … there were strange things happening to him that he had only just begun to notice.

The first major incident occurred about three weeks after he’d begun primary school.  The class had got a pet rabbit named Peter, whom the teacher had brought in after they’d read the famous Beatrix Potter book.  Every week, a new little boy and girl would be allowed to take Peter outside for recess when the weather was warm, to exercise him (under the watchful eyes of their teacher, of course.)  The third week it was his turn, along with a girl named Martha.  They carried him out to the playground and proceeded to watch him hop around, sniffing and chewing on grass.  It was quite dull. 

Suddenly, loud barking was heard.  A nearby woman, out walking her dog past the schoolyard, lost control of the beast as it rushed towards the fence, eyes set on Peter.  The poor rabbit was so startled he took off, zipping past the playground and disappearing into the overgrown field behind it.  Mycroft and Martha immediately took off after him, the girl shrieking out Peter’s name while Mycroft just complained silently about having to run _anywhere_ , least of all after a stupid rabbit—he disliked rigorous exercise.

Out in the field, Mycroft logically suggested they split up in order to cover more ground, and Martha agreed—so each child started walking in a different direction, calling out the rabbit’s name. 

“Peter,” Mycroft called half-heartedly, kicking a little rock in front of him. He was incredibly irritated, still feeling a bit winded from his unappreciated workout. “Peter, come back at once!”

Mycroft started when a rustling came from a tuft of grass about two meters away, and then the little brown-spotted rabbit had hopped out, resting on his haunches and giving Mycroft an expectant look. The young boy relaxed, and then put on a stern expression.

“There you are,” he said.  “That wasn’t very nice of you, hopping off like that.  I had to run after you.  I don’t _like_ to run.”  Part of him knew it was rather silly to be talking to a  _rabbit_ , but the other part of him was quite cross and therefore didn't care. Obviously, he wasn’t expecting a response—so when Peter deliberately cocked an ear, like a human would cock an eyebrow, Mycroft kept on, a bit startled and a lot curious.  “What if we hadn’t found you?  You’d be stuck out here.” 

Peter flicked his whiskers as if he were brushing aside Mycroft’s concern.  _Here is nice._  

Mycroft blinked.  Perhaps he was just imagining it ... he opened his mouth again. “Well, you say that now, but where would you sleep when it got dark?”  

The rabbit dug his paws into the ground, creating a little indent in the soil.  _I would make a burrow here._   

Mycroft _definitely_ wasn't imagining things. He was actually holding a conversation with a rabbit!  Though Peter hadn't spoken in actual words, Mycroft had somehow understood the meaning as clearly as if he'd  _had_.  How strange! 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mycroft responded.  “The sawdust in your pen is much softer than the ground.  Plus, it’s warmer inside the classroom.  You’d get too cold out here, and nobody would feed you.” 

Peter nibbled on a blade of grass. _I do like being fed._

“Yes, well there you have it." The civil conversation had drained the shock from Mycroft and left him with an odd sense of normalcy.  Perhaps other children experienced this too ... he'd have to gather more data.  "Now, do come back with me, please.  Recess will be over soon and I don’t want to get into trouble.”  

And so, Mycroft had walked all the way back to a stunned Martha and Mrs Bentsworth, who were watching the little brown-spotted rabbit hopping along obediently behind him with dropped jaws. 

“How are you doing that?” Martha asked loudly.

“Doing what?”

“Making him _follow_ you like that!”

Mycroft looked at Peter. _Tread cautiously,_ his mind warned.  “I’m not making Peter do anything.  I asked him nicely.” 

His teacher had looked at him strangely and Martha had accused him of concealing carrots in his coat pocket, but it wasn’t long before the whole situation had been forgotten.  Except, that is, by Mycroft, who found himself wondering quite often if it was _cleverness_ that allowed him to communicate with a rabbit, or if it was something else altogether.

 

* * *

 

The second incident quickly followed the first, followed by a third, and then a fourth—a pair of his father’s eyeglasses remarkably repaired themselves before he could confess to breaking them.  That stupid Peter Rabbit kept interrupting him during quiet time, demanding why they weren’t taking him outside anymore (to which he’d hissed, “Because it’s winter and it’s too cold!” and then got in trouble for being noisy).  And it wasn't just rabbits that were suddenly boisterous conversationalists—any animal or bird he made eye-contact with had something to say. (The fish he'd encountered remained thankfully silent.)  But the most alarming instance was when he’d accidentally dropped his prized leather-bound dictionary.  Instead of falling and becoming ruined in the slushy snow, it had _hovered_ a few inches in the air before floating back up and into his arms.  He'd been frozen in place for about ten minutes after that.  

Pretty soon strange incidences became too numerous to count. As more and more unexplained events kept occurring around him, Mycroft decided that the only way he was going to keep his head was to ignore them altogether.  So he put the eyeglasses back without saying a word.  He quickly bagged his dictionary and kept walking.  He ignored Peter and all his animal friends as hard as he could.  It was easy enough to convince himself, with enough effort, that all the episodes had logical explanations, and when he knew more he’d be able to understand exactly what those were.  

 

* * *

 

When he was seven, Mycroft’s mother decided it was pointless for the live-in nanny to be employed full-time, with Mycroft attending school.  So she kicked the older woman out of her rooms in the estate and greatly reduced her hours.  Now, she only came in the afternoons when Mummy and Father weren’t at home; and since Mummy rarely left the house, Mycroft suddenly found himself quite frequently alone.

He didn't like it.

He was not an imaginative child; he could not think up satisfactory adventures to have in the back garden, or make-believe any suitable friends for himself.  (He did try once, to quite lacklustre results.) Instead, Mycroft read books by himself and took walks around the garden unaccompanied and generally did not see another living soul until supper, when Mummy and he would gather around a large table and make abysmal small-talk (if they talked at all.) Then it was off to bed, alone, where Mycroft would try to fall asleep even as the staggering pressure of utter silence pressed in on him in the dark.

He tolerated this new isolation for as long as he could—and then decided to take matters into his own hands. One windy October afternoon, after returning home from school, Mycroft strode into the library where he knew his mother would be, draped across her favourite settee and reading her usual noir crime novel. 

“Mummy,” Mycroft began after they had exchanged affectionate greetings, “Lately I have felt quite lonely.” 

“Oh, dear,” his mother replied airily, setting aside her book.  “That isn’t a good feeling to have.” 

“No.  I’m not fond of it.” 

Mummy looked thoughtful.  “Perhaps we should invite some of your schoolmates over for tea.  Do any of them live close by?” 

Mycroft didn’t want to tell his mother how little he could stand the other children in his class—so he opted for a quick dismissal.  “No, Mummy, that’s not quite what I had in mind.  A more _lasting_ solution would be for the best, don’t you think?” 

Virginia Holmes steepled long, graceful fingers under her chin, thinking hard.  “Hmm.  Well, it _is_  your birthday soon.  Shall I buy you a dog?  Or a rabbit, perhaps?” 

Mycroft’s mind flashed immediately to chattering, annoying Peter Rabbit from his kindergarten classroom, and couldn’t quite stop himself from grimacing.  “ _Definitely_ not,” he replied. 

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re looking for, darling.  I want to help you, of course I do, but I will need more data.  What do you have in mind, Mycroft?” 

Mycroft locked his big green eyes on his mother and said quite plainly, “I would _like_ a sibling.” 

Virginia Holmes smiled at Mycroft, though it was a sad smile.  She took her son’s hand in both of her own, and said kindly, “Oh, darling child.  I’m sorry you’re so lonely, and I know how much you would love a sibling.  But I just don’t think your father and I could give you one.  He is away so often, you see, and I—I’m not as young as I used to be.  I wouldn’t have the energy to raise another stubborn little Holmes child.” She giggled and kissed her son’s hand gently.  “No, I think it’s _perfect_ just the way it is—three Holmes in all the world.”  She began to go on again about Mycroft selecting a pet, but the small ginger Holmes had stopped listening. 

He already knew his mother didn’t want another child, the same way he could tell that she didn’t love Father very much, and could read the guilt over Mycroft’s loneliness in her droopy, sad eyes.  But Mycroft _also_ knew that he could reverse this mindset of hers.  After all, he’d been practising on his classmates for the last three years, honing his skills in manipulation, ready for just such a task— _he was going to change his mother’s mind._   With a simple string of words and a concentrated look into her eyes, he was going to push his desires into her head and _make_ her give him what he wanted. 

It had taken him a while to suss out exactly how to work his unique ability.  Many trials and errors had gone into discovering the three simple steps it required: 

Step one; lock gazes with the victim.  This induced in the victim a trance-like state that could be easily broken if Mycroft so much as blinked.

Step two; attach a particular emotion onto a statement or command.  This part was the meat and potatoes of his gift—without emotion, his words were just a sentence, powerless and cheap.  It was also the part that was the trickiest for Mycroft to master since emotions, in general, were not his strong suit.  Moreover, the statement had to be said out loud; though Mycroft maintained hopes that in the future it could remain a silent thought.

Step three; transfer the thought (with attached sentimentality) into the victim’s mind, using the eyes as doorways into the body.  This step was hard to describe, and harder to perform.  There was a physicality to it that had to occur, a material transfer of intent that could be felt and experienced by the victim.  This step took Mycroft the longest to discover—before then, his gift had often failed him, causing him all sorts of grief when the victim would come out of their reverie and demand to know what he was playing at. 

It was easiest with children, who were generally very impressionable and changeable.  Adults were trickier.  They were much less fond of change, had more stubbornness and inflexibility.  Mycroft often found their iron wills simply too strong for his influence—he had to resort back to data gathering and craftiness to achieve his goals. 

But his mother was sad and unhappy, and Mycroft knew her will would melt like butter under his fingertips. Together, with these three steps, Mycroft knew he could get whatever he wanted from her, whenever it suited him to have it.  And today … well, today Mycroft wanted a sibling.  

Virginia Holmes was startled into silence when Mycroft climbed up onto the settee with her, gently reaching for her face with his two smaller hands and guiding it to look straight into his eyes. 

“Mycroft, darling, what’s—“ 

“Mummy,” Mycroft said, enunciating very sharply, never allowing himself to blink even once.  “You are very lonely.  The house is too quiet and sad.  You should very much like another child to fill up the empty spaces.”  As he was speaking, Mycroft took every lonely thought he had ever had in the last four months and bundled them up tight in his chest, creating a dense ball of negativity that nearly choked him with its intensity. Contained within that ball was a tiny point of light—Mycroft’s hope for a new baby and the gregarious future it would bring him.  It travelled up through his throat and out of his mouth, whereupon he pushed it, along with his words, into the eyes and mind of his mother. 

Virginia’s pupils dilated and she gave a little gasp as all that sentiment hit her at once.  Her gaze stayed locked on her son’s, who watched as her mind sorted through all the information, categorised it, and assimilated it into her own schema (overriding where necessary.)  He waited until her pupils contracted again before he finally blinked and pulled away, moving off the settee and standing in front of her as if the whole episode had not occurred. 

Virginia blinked, looking confused, and met Mycroft’s gaze. 

“Yes, Mummy?  What were you saying?” Mycroft inquired politely. 

Virginia blinked again, and then a wide smile broke out upon her face, lighting up her eyes in a way Mycroft hadn’t seen a smile of hers do in a long time.  “Mycroft, darling, that is a _wonderful_ idea.  I am very lonely, and this house is too quiet and sad.  I would very much like another child to fill up the empty spaces.” 

She informed Siger Holmes of her desire that very evening, with Mycroft sitting at the end of the table trying not to look too pleased with himself.  Three weeks later, he was given a kitten for his birthday, whom he named Peter in a fit of good-humored nostalgia.  Nine months later, he was given a baby brother, whom his parents named Sherlock. 

And Mycroft adored the both of them. 

  

* * *

 

The years that followed were some of the brightest of Mycroft’s life.  He had a curious, wonderful little brother whom he loved dearly.  He had the nanny again, whenever he wanted her.  He had Peter to curl up with on cold nights, and Sherlock too when he was older.  His strict, overbearing Father was away on business more than ever.  The only downside was his mother’s declining health, after the birth of Sherlock.  But still, the overwhelming positives were enough that Mycroft didn’t feel too guilty about that.

His abilities were stronger than ever.  At the start of his 4th year, he’d managed to make the entire school board decide that ten-year-olds should have student-run officer elections and government.  (Mycroft, of course, was elected class president.)  By the end of the 4th year, he’d managed to purposefully move a pen from one side of his dining room table to the other, without having to touch it at all. 

He felt powerful.  He felt untouchable.  He began to have dreams of a brilliant life in politics, a life where _he_ made the rules; became the unseen, omnipotent force driving all the prominent political figures.  A god amongst regular men. 

And then, when he is eleven, Mycroft’s perfect world—the perfect vision he had of himself—literally comes crashing down in his back garden in the form of a man claiming to be a _wizard._


	2. Dubiety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 11-year-old Mycroft is not impressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, if you're looking for regular updates of this story, follow my tumblr aufanficfanatic.tumblr.com. I post the chapters in chunks as I write them, and then upload them here when a chapter is complete.
> 
> I have no beta, and I have no britpicker. If anyone is interested in either job, please message me!!

It all started on a particularly hot day in July, just after his little brother’s fourth birthday.  Mycroft, Sherlock, and the nanny were out in the gardens, under the shade of a large English oak, when there was a loud **_CRACK_** from somewhere nearby, almost like gunfire.  The nanny shrieked and Sherlock began to cry, but Mycroft just stood up and turned his head in the direction of the noise, vigilant against threats. 

He’d been expecting a lot of things.  A poacher with a rifle, a burglar perhaps—what he was _not_ expecting was a doddering old man in an (admittedly very well put-together) Merlin costume, complete with long beard and flowing indigo robes. 

The nanny was too startled to speak, but Mycroft didn’t hesitate to address the stranger.  “Sir, I don’t suppose you realise that you are _trespassing_ on Holmes property,” he called coldly, taking a step in front of his younger brother to shield him from this madman.  He prepared his ability, locking eyes with the stranger and infusing his words with an intense feeling of unwelcome.  “Please leave at once.” 

The old man merely smiled serenely, drifting forward with more grace than his age would suggest and standing a few meters away from the family.  “Good afternoon, Mycroft Holmes.  You are just the boy I was hoping to see,” the stranger said cheerfully. 

Mycroft was thrown. Why hadn’t his ability worked?  “What?  Who are you?  How do you know my name?” 

“Perhaps we should have this conversation indoors, with your parents present.  Would you be so kind as to invite me in?” 

There was something about this man … Mycroft couldn’t get any readings off of him—it’s not that he didn’t _see_ anything, just that he couldn’t _understand_ any of it.  What strange substance had dotted his sleeve?  There were ink stains on his fingers and callouses on his fingers that told Mycroft the man spent most of his time at a desk—but the ink was not the consistency of a regular biro.  It was like India ink, dark and smudgy.  Definitely a professor, perhaps of art?  Mycroft could see a long polished stick of wood just inside the man’s sleeve—what was its purpose?  It was too long to be an expensive writing utensil but too short to be a cane or walking stick.  And why in the sleeve?  It was a terribly odd place to have a pocket.

Of course, Mycroft had these thoughts within the span of a single second.  In the next second, he decided that he was terribly intrigued, so Mycroft soon found himself sat on the sofa with his mother and Sherlock, despite his better judgment.  His mother held Sherlock in her arms, and his father idled by the mantle, a deep frown etched across his face.   The stranger sat in a stiff leather armchair directly across from Mycroft, still smiling brightly as if the room _wasn’t_ incredibly tense. 

“Who did you say you were, again?” Mr Holmes grunted from the mantle, very disapproving of this alien man in a fancy dressing gown in his sitting room. 

“I don’t believe I have said at all.  I am Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts,” the old man introduced with a flourish.  “Wonderfully pleased to meet you, Mr and Mrs Holmes.” 

“Oh, Headmaster?  You represent a boarding school, then?” His mother asked gently, trying keeping the vibrant ball of energy that is four-year-old Sherlock stifled. 

“Hogwarts?” Asked his father.  “What kind of name is _that_ for a school?  A second-rate establishment, no doubt.” He harrumphed.

“Shh,” Virginia chastised.  She covered Sherlock’s mouth before he could spit out the insult that was no doubt on his tongue.

Dumbledore turned to Siger.  “My dear man, Hogwarts is a very _special_ school, the only of its kind in all of Britain.  And your son happens to be a very special boy.  I am here to offer him a place in our school.”

The word ‘special’ changed Siger’s tune almost immediately.  “Oh, you are a school for academically gifted children!  Then, of course, you noticed my son, there isn’t a smarter child in all of London,” he boasted.  Mycroft found himself rather irritated by his father’s superiority as if he could take all the credit for Mycroft’s intelligence. After all, when had his father been home long enough to do any sort of parenting?  _‘You don’t even know me,’_ he thought in his father’s direction but remained silent. 

“A school for gifted children we are indeed, Mr Holmes—however, the qualifying factors Mycroft possess lie not in academic prowess, (thought that will surely take him far in our establishment), but in magical ability.  For Hogwarts is a school for Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

The reaction is immediate, as all the attention and grudging respect that had been forming in Siger Holmes’s mind for this Headmaster Double-door dissipates in an explosion of outrage.  “WHAT NONSENSE IS THIS?” He roared, eyes bulging and face becoming ruddy.  “HOW DARE YOU COME INTO MY HOME AND SPOUT SUCH NONSENSE, I SHALL CALL THE POLICE … UTTER RUBBISH … FRAUDULENT REPRESENTATION …” He went on and on. 

Mycroft had initially turned up his nose at the so-called Professor’s words, and had been glad _somebody_ would verbally eviscerate the madman—but there was a small niggling at the back of his brain, and he thought about all the strange things that happened around him on a daily basis—objects that seem to defy the very logic of the universe in his presence.  _Could it be …?_   But no!  Mycroft was _different_ , he was _special_ … no one could do the things he could do!  Giving his remarkability such a fantastical label as ‘Magic,’ like fairy dust and wishing on stars and other such rubbish … it was unacceptable. 

Dumbledore smiled politely through his father’s threats and insults, and waited for him to finish before he said gently, “This will be a long conversation; would anyone like some tea?” 

And then he took the long, polished piece of wood out of his sleeve pocket, gave it a funny sort of wave— 

And an entire tea set, complete with creamer and sugar bowl, blinked into existence on the coffee table. 

Silence descended upon the room so suddenly, it like all the sounds had been sucked out of the air. 

“One lump or two?”

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later, Siger Holmes had paced a track in front of the fireplace, while Virginia has gone quiet—as has Sherlock, but only under threat of banishment from the room and the proceedings.  Even so, his mother’s hand was still poised in his bird-nest hair, ready to strike and cover his mouth to keep the rude comments from tumbling out. It wouldn't do to insult their guest, no matter how odd said guest was. 

Mycroft was also silent.  He listened to the old man describe a secret, hidden world with its own underground government; and a magic school hid away in the Scottish Highlands, unable to be charted on a map unless you knew exactly where it was.  He listened, and listened, and all the while thought only one thought: _poppycock._  

It wasn’t true.  It couldn’t be.  Despite the tiny, minuscule part of him that was disgustingly _hopeful_ about the sincerity of the man’s words, the logical side of Mycroft (by which is meant _most_ of Mycroft) could not accept the Headmaster’s earlier demonstration with the tea set as irrefutable proof of magic’s existence. There had been too many unsavoury variables at the time to suggest anything more than an elaborate parlour trick. Mycroft himself had five possible explanations as to how the old man did it.  

Discreetly, he first checked his pulse, and then sniffed the teacup. 

… Okay, make those three ideas. 

He toed off his oxfords, and gently brushed the underside of the coffee table with his sock feet. 

… One idea? 

Giving up for the moment, Mycroft glared at Dumbledore, who was busy repeating himself (for the sixth or seventh time) to Siger Holmes.  If the man was a liar, he was certainly a masterful one.  Mycroft could detect no hint of any of the usual tells, the little ticks of behaviour that usually betrayed a liar.  In fact, his body language had not changed from a graceful, kindly patience since Mycroft had met him in the back garden.  It was somehow _extremely_ irritating. 

“Now, Mr and Mrs Holmes, before we proceed any further I would like an opportunity to speak to the boy alone,” Dumbledore said lightly, yet still in a tone that seemed to brook no argument.  “We shan’t be long.  Dear boy, if you would be so kind …?” 

Though Mycroft wasn’t really in the habit of seeking permission for his own actions, he did look to his father for acquiescence in this case.  His father’s face had gone a bit peaky and his eyes were distant and reflective, thoughts obviously a whirlwind of activity as he worked through the words of the last half-hour. 

“Go ahead, dear,” his mother said to Mycroft, looking between her husband and her son.  “I think perhaps your father needs a moment to collect himself, anyway.” 

So Mycroft obediently got up from his seat and walked with the Headmaster over to the patio doors, the old man clearly leading the way back to the gardens where they’d first met.  They go for a stroll around the garden, Mycroft stiff-backed and frowning and Dumbledore sure-footed and whistling. 

They had walked halfway around the garden path before Mycroft planted his feet and steeled his nerves, tired of waiting and listening to that odd, tuneless whistling.  Dumbledore stopped as well, smiling with a polite confusion that was clearly manufactured for Mycroft’s benefit. 

“So, Mr Dumbledore, you say that you’re a … _wizard_ ,” Mycroft began distastefully, crossing his lanky arms over his boyish chest with as much haughtiness as he could muster.  “I could say I appreciate the afternoon story; but that, of course, would _also_ be untrue.  You have picked the wrong family to scam; the Holmes’s are of a _scientific_ mind, sir.  We find no delight in make-believe.”  

The bearded man was _still_ smiling, taking in his surroundings with a polite interest.  Mycroft found it difficult to keep composure when he said, “Yes, this is a nice spot.  Let us sit down, shall we?” 

Mycroft grits his teeth.  “I do not believe you heard me, sir.  There is nothing to talk about.  I won’t be hoodwinked by some old codger in costume!”  He grew even less calm as the man simply ignored him, turning from the garden path to examine one of the numerous rose bushes along the wall.  “Where do you even intend to sit?  There are no benches here!” 

Dumbledore took his long, polished stick out of his sleeve pocket, and turned to grin cheekily at the ginger boy.  “My dear boy, when life provides little in the way of resources, we must learn to make them for ourselves.” 

He drew a complicated series of shapes over the rosebush, and it turned into a squashy, rose-patterned armchair _._ Just in time, too, since Mycroft felt his knees go to water and he all but fell into it gracelessly. 

He struggled for breath, eyes went wide as his stubby fingers brushed over the petal-soft fabric that had _most definitively_ been a plant two seconds ago.  There were no unsavoury variables this time.  There was no instantaneous fabrication, lost by one mistimed blink—Mycroft had _seen_ the edges of the bush condense together in a solid form, the three-dimensional blooms flattening into a shaded, two-dimensional image stretched over its shape. 

If he had had _any_ lingering doubts about magic after witnessing that display, then looking up to see Dumbledore literally _drawing_ another chair into the air between them would have adequately squashed them. 

The last shimmering line was drawn, the wing-backed chair suddenly gained dimension and thudded heavily onto the stone ground before him.  The old man settled into it with a pleased noise, tucking his stick away. 

“It’s … true,” Mycroft whispered; a statement, not a question.  “You’re a wizard.  You really _can_ do magic.”

Dumbledore smiled, placing a gentle hand on Mycroft’s own in support.  “And so will you, and rather admirably I predict, once you take the education I am offering you.” 

Suddenly, without warning, fireworks of excitement burst in Mycroft’s chest cavity, and he grinned like an absolute fool before he could contain himself.  “I’m a _wizard_!” He exclaimed the taste of it exotic but no less savoury on his tongue. 

Dumbledore smiled wider.  “Now, at last, we find ourselves on the same broom, dear boy.  Let us fly forward with a single-minded determination to be in before the tea gets terribly cold, shall we?  After all, there is nothing quite as upsetting in this world as cold tea.”

Mycroft was too stunned and excited to speak, which was for the best anyway since he had no idea how to respond to that odd declaration.  Flying on brooms?  Was that an actual thing that happened?  Good Lord, he was out of his depth.  How exciting!

Eyes bright, fingers clenched on the arms of the rose-sofa, he expelled a flurry of questions he could no longer keep contained for fear of bursting.  “What is that stick in your pocket?  Does it contain your magic, or simply channel it?  Will I be receiving one?  How big is Hogwarts?  How many students attend?  Are there many other wizards out there?  Where is your central government located?  How many—"

"Ah, to be so young and inquisitive ... it is the fallacy of the aged to believe only in their own stagnant knowledge and dismiss the youthful, who see the Earth in new ways.  To know is  _never_  the last stop in the journey for knowledge, for it is a journey without end."

Mycroft reigned in his excitement, correcting his posture and feeling properly chastised, though he wasn't quite sure why.  "Yes, sir."  He certainly could not fathom ever stopping his pursuit of magical knowledge—not now, that he knew it existed.  But suddenly, thinking of all those moments when he had 'done magic' and compared them to what this powerful wizard had done—it didn't seem like enough.  Moving pens and making books float seemed leagues behind turning multi-cellular life forms into furniture.  What if he didn't have it in him?

Somehow, even though Mycroft had remained completely in control of his expression, Dumbledore still knew his sudden doubt.  The old man smiled, and his blue eyes seemed to twinkle.  "All that is needed to light an inferno is a single spark, dear boy.  You needn't doubt yourself."

Mycroft became a bit in awe of the man, remembering that only ten minutes prior he'd thought Dumbledore a crackpot old fool.  He wondered how he could have thought so, even without the facts—that spark of brilliance in the wizard's eyes could not be missed.  "I won't, sir," Mycroft began earnestly, feeling an overwhelming urge not to disappoint the man, ever.  "I will take the education you are offering me gratefully, Headmaster, and I will study very hard!" 

Dumbledore smiled wider, warmth filling his bright blue eyes.  "I am glad, my boy. So will, I expect, the Office of Underage Magic.  They've been almost constantly Peppered-Up since you were a small boy, and will be glad to see your wild magic suitable restrained," he whispered mischievously, with a wink. 

After a moment (in which Mycroft was trying to figure out the particular significance of "peppered-up") the headmaster's expression became sombre.  "I admit that part of the reason I brought you out here alone was to try and convince you away from the influence of your parents.  It was very important that you agree to come to Hogwarts.  Magic is a wild thing, you see, and can be quite dangerous to those witches and wizards who remain untrained. Under normal circumstances, we _do_ take the matter of choice into consideration … but in your case, I wouldn’t have accepted no for an answer.” 

Mycroft was surprised.  After all, he’d been nervous that he didn’t have _enough_ magic, and now Dumbledore was implying that he was some sort of special case?  “What makes me so different from _usual_ prospective wizards?” 

Dumbledore crossed one leg over the other and leant forward, giving Mycroft an assessing stare.  “You are a unique child, aren’t you Mr Holmes?  A wizard found in a family with not a single drop of magical blood to be found anywhere on his (very extensive) family tree. And if that weren’t rare enough, to _also_ possess a Silver Tongue ... you will be unique even in the wizarding world.” 

“ … a Silver Tongue?” _Noun.  A tendency to be eloquent and persuasive when speaking._ Surely Mycroft was indeed those things, but why would Dumbledore imply that wizards generally _weren’t?_ Especially when the old man himself was so well-expressed?

Dumbledore’s gaze was piercing over his half-moon spectacles.  Mycroft felt lost and tense.  “It is the ability to control the power of language, my dear boy.  It can be a dangerous thing; the ability to plant a seed of suggestion and let it grow as a foreign invader in a benign mind, all with a single word.  I could not allow you to refuse our training because you are in need of it more than the others, especially when it comes to the rights and wrongs of magic. We do not take kindly to the magical manipulation of thought and will.”

Mycroft swallowed.  His mind travelled back over the last seven years, to every moment when he had mentally strong-armed the people around him in order to get his way—only to find it impossible, the moments to frequent to count.  His classmates, his teachers, his own Mummy … anyone who had made themselves even the slightest annoyance had been dealt with.  Before now, he’d never thought of it as something shady, something evil.  He had assumed it was just another manifestation of his magic, something any wizard could do.  It made his stomach turn.  Had he been doing some taboo form of dark magic this whole time? 

Dumbledore knew his train of thought, as he’d known during this whole encounter.  “Things are not as black and white as so, Mr Holmes.  Why we wizards would be lost without the mysterious power of the oral word. With one utterance of a simple spell, we can control the very fabric of our lives! For us, it must be a specific word, one whose power is accessible to us. For you, not only a wizard but a Silvertongue ... all words have the potential to be used in power. It depends on you what kind of power that is." He tilted his head slightly, contemplative. "It _is_ a gift, but one that could turn into a curse if you do not exercise caution.  It will have its good uses in the future, numerous benefits, but until you learn the full implication of your ability I suggest you refrain,” he said, not unkindly.  Likely he knew just how much Mycroft relied on the ability.  Mycroft felt vaguely ashamed of his actions for the past few years—and wasn’t that something?  He had been _powerful,_ in his own mind.  How quickly a King could be dethroned and made the Fool. 

“Yes sir,” he mumbled. 

Dumbledore patted his hand, and then stood up.  “Good.  Now that that’s settled, let’s go back and tie up the loose ends, shall we?”  He pulled out his magical stick, vanished the chair and transfigured the sofa back into a rose bush, right out from underneath Mycroft.  The redhead staggered upwards in surprise, and then couldn’t help but chuckle along with the Headmaster, a pleasant flush on his cheeks.  His negative emotions quickly faded out of mind. 

Together, the young and old wizard walked side-by-side back to the house.  Mycroft’s father was still angry and upset but had been tempered somewhat by his wife, who smiled at Dumbledore and Mycroft as they came back in through the patio doors.  Sherlock was nowhere in sight, no doubt released back into the wild. 

“Well, Mr and Mrs Holmes, Mycroft has accepted his enrollment; happy news indeed!  Here,” he added, pulling out a letter on rich parchment paper, written in green ink.  It was addressed to Mycroft, but he put it in Virginia’s hand.  “That is his acceptance letter.  It will have all the necessary details on how to prepare Mycroft for the new school term.” 

Siger ripped it from his wife’s hand and tore into it messily.  “You may have somehow convinced my impressionable son, but I have the final say in this house!  If I decide he is not going, then he is _not going_!”  His eyes scanned the several documents wildly, muttering to himself.  “Wizardry! Humph.  Cauldrons, wands, _spellbooks_ , what nonsense—what is this?  I’ll not have **_toads_** in this house!!” 

Mycroft eyed the letter a bit longingly, wanting very much to read it.  Virginia stood up and approached Dumbledore with her hand extended.  Like a perfect gentleman of upbringing, Dumbledore brought the back of it to his lips.  

“Mr Dumbledore, if my son trusts what you say, then so do I, no matter how unbelievable!  He is an extraordinary child, you know—and somehow, once the shock of it wore off, it didn’t really surprise me that he’s even more extraordinary than I thought.  I imagine he will always surprise me, he and his brother both,” she sighed wearily, but with pride. 

Mycroft looked upon his mother in awe.  In the back of his mind, guilt and shame again rose up at the memory of so callously controlling her with his Silver Tongue.  _Never again,_ he vowed silently. 

Dumbledore joined her in a smile.  “Indeed.  I look forward to his surprises at Hogwarts. Term begins on September the 1st.  His train will leave from King’s Cross; it’s all in the letter.  Finally, there is the small matter of his school things—someone will arrive promptly at seven o’clock on August the third to take Mycroft to purchase them,” Dumbledore said.  “You can hash out the particulars when this person arrives.  I do apologise, but I’m afraid I must away—one more family to visit, you know!”  He kissed Virginia’s hand again, wisely decided to only nod courteously to Siger without approaching him—and then turned to Mycroft. 

“Dear boy, it has been a pleasure.  I shall see you on the First of September.” 

And so, saying his goodbyes, Dumbledore strode back out of the patio and out of sight.

After his departure, there was a moment of silence (punctuated only by the occasional displeased murmur of Siger) when Mycroft was so emotionally drained he had to concentrate on making his legs hold him up.  He couldn’t believe magic existed.  He couldn’t believe a wizard visited him.  He couldn’t believe that he was going to _become_ a wizard too, that his mother was trusting in his judgment and supporting his decision. 

Her words echoed through his head: _‘I imagine he will always surprise me, he and his brother both.’_

 _—_ And suddenly he is off like a rocket, heedless of his mother’s surprised cries, chasing after the old Headmaster. 

"Mr Dumbledore, wait!" 

Dumbledore was halfway down the garden path but turned around instantly at Mycroft’s shout.  The redhead distantly noted that he didn’t look surprised to see him at all.  "Yes, dear boy?" 

"Will ... will my brother get to go too?  In the future, I mean.  I … he is very important to me.  I should like to always be able to watch over him.” 

Dumbledore smiled at him with incredible fondness, and then his expression turned thoughtful.  "I believe the question you are truly asking me is whether or not your brother has magic in him.”  His gaze pierced Mycroft over the top of his spectacles like it had in the garden.  “I am afraid I cannot answer.  It is not for you to know, yet." Mycroft tried not to look too disappointed.  

Dumbledore surprised him, then, by walking over and putting a friendly hand on his shoulder.  He was not smiling.  “Mycroft.  Whether or not he has magic I cannot tell.  What I _do_ see is that you both are destined to walk down different paths.  Seven years, after all, is quite a large gap." 

Mycroft’s heart beat in his throat.  What did that mean, exactly?  Helpless, he simply replied, "Yes ... I suppose it is."   

Dumbledore sighed a little flippantly, his features smoothing.  "Still, there is no love quite like the one between siblings.  Cherish it, dear child."  His gaze was distant for one moment, two—then he clapped Mycroft heartily on the back.  "Well, I’ll see you soon.  Enjoy the rest of your summer!"  He winked, turned on the spot, and was gone.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time, Mycroft and Sherlock meet the wizard who will take them to Diagon Alley.
> 
> Happy Christmas, my lovelies. Thank you so much for reading my story.


	3. Visitant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Sherlock meet the wizard taking them to Diagon Alley, and don't get what they expect.

Mycroft woke up early on August the 3rd, barely able to contain his excitement for the day ahead.  _Finally_ , he was going to take his first real step into the Wizarding World, the world that he had only heard second-hand about, and never seen for himself.  Keeping the faith was one thing, sure, but it got harder the longer he had to do it.  He yearned for tangible evidence; to be able to see and touch and experience the world he dreamed about at night. And today he _would_ , for today was the day he was going to London to shop for his school things.  To a place called Diagon Alley. 

Peter, the cat, was sleeping in his preferred position above Mycroft’s head.  Mycroft was too excited to resist waking him up for a chat.  He lifted the cat up into the air from behind his front legs and gave him a little twirl. Peter yowled, making his displeasure clearly known.

_What are you doing, stupid human?_

“Today’s the day, Peter! I’m officially going to become a wizard.” 

_I cannot adequately express how much I do not care about this.  Put me down at once._

“Aren’t you even a little happy for me, Peter?”

_I will claw you._

Mycroft acquiesced, putting the cat down.  He flew through his morning routine, blood singing in his ears with excitement, and went downstairs to the breakfast nook only to find Sherlock awake and waiting for him.

He wasn’t even remotely surprised.  If there was one person who could be more excited for their trip than Mycroft, it was Sherlock.

Sherlock had been incredibly acidic about the whole ‘Dumbledore’ event, calling Mycroft a fool and Dumbledore names that a four-year-old really shouldn’t know.  “There’s no such thing as magic,” he had said, his baby teeth bared and high child’s voice wavering.  “You awre being _un-science-tific!”_  

But then Mycroft had told him everything; from the first time he’d spoken to an animal, to the times when objects had behaved strangely in his presence.  He was open and honest with Sherlock in a way he had never been before with any other person.  The only tongue he held was of the Silver variety—Sherlock didn’t need to know that the only reason he existed was because Mycroft had compelled their mother into it.

He told him his first-hand account of what Dumbledore was capable of from their tete-a-tete in the garden, and by the time his narration was over Sherlock had been wide-eyed and flabbergasted.

“Did he weally do those things, Mycwoft?  Awe you telling the twuth?”

“Holmes’ never tell lies, Sherlock.  And really, we must do something about your R’s.”

After that, Sherlock had been glued to Mycroft’s side, always nattering on about magic and looking at Mycroft like the sun rose and set upon him.  To be so utterly adored by another human being was a feeling Mycroft had never experienced before, and he instantly knew he never wanted to be without it.  Sometimes at night, with Sherlock curled up next to him in his bed, Dumbledore’s words ran through his head: _‘You are destined to walk down different paths …’_ But the words made his chest hurt, so he never allowed himself to linger on it.  Dumbledore couldn’t be right, anyway.  As brothers and friends, the Holmes children were too close.  Nothing could break their bond.

Mycroft sat down at the small table next to Sherlock, and one of the maids put a plate of eggs benedict in front of him.  “Good morning, Sherlock,” he greeted.

“Mycwoft, when is the new wizawd coming to pick us up?” Sherlock demanded without preamble, practically vibrating in his seat with energy.

Mycroft had already told Sherlock countless times, so he did not indulge his brother’s impatience by repeating himself.  Instead, he gently swallowed a bit of egg and said, “Sherlock, use your R’s.”

His little brother looked highly offended.  “I tw—twrr … try,” he said strenuously, crossing his arms and slipping into a mini-sulk—as much as a highly eager child _could_ sulk, anyway.

“No you don’t,” Mycroft argued, “Or you would have mastered it by now.  You have deemed it irrelevant and not worth your time, don’t pretend you haven’t.  But that is okay.  Today, _everything_ is okay. Today I’m going to become a _wizard_!” 

Sherlock grinned from ear-to-ear, and Mycroft’s smile was also quite large.  “I am going to see weal magic today!” He cried, “Finally!”

After breakfast, Mycroft went out to sit in the foyer to wait for the wizard, Sherlock at his heels.  “Do you think I will be a wizawd too someday?”  It wasn’t the first time Sherlock had asked that question, by any means.  But this particular reassurance was important to him, so Mycroft didn’t have any qualms repeating himself in this instance. 

“Oh, I think there’s a good chance of it, don’t you?” 

Sherlock looked terribly pleased with himself.  Mycroft just smiled fondly. 

Suddenly, their mother’s voice sounded from the sitting room.  “Mycroft, Sherlock, please don’t linger in the hallway.  Come in here.”

The two brothers went into the sitting room, each giving their Mummy a polite ‘Good Morning,’ as was proper.  Virginia Holmes was resplendent as ever, wearing a tasteful yet understated white dress with her long dark hair twisted artfully in an updo.

“I have something for you, Mycroft,” she began, undoing the clasp on her purse.  She took out a roll of large bills, and Mycroft’s eyes widened in shock.

“Mummy, that is too much!” 

“Nonsense, dear.  You need school supplies, don’t you?  So you shall have the _best_ school supplies, as befitting a Holmes,” she said loftily.  “This is also to ensure plenty of spare pounds for the academic year, in the case of emergencies.”  She sniffed delicately.  “You’ll be so far away; I won’t be able to help you quickly if you get into trouble.”

“But Mummy, surely—”

“Hush, Mycroft.  This is all I can do for you, so let me do it.”

Mycroft sighed and took the bills from his mother’s hands.  “Yes, Mummy.  Thank you very much.” He slipped them in his wallet.

Virginia then took a few minutes to fuss over Sherlock, murmuring softly to him as she straightened his clothes and brushed her fingers through his unruly hair.  Mycroft took that time to focus his keen green eyes on her form.  Her face was careworn, and though her makeup was impeccable, he could still see traces of the dark circles beneath her tired hazel eyes. 

“Play me your scales and arpeggios, Sherlock.”

“Okay, Mummy.”

He felt a pang of guilt at the signs of yet another sleepless night on his mother.  She had been withdrawn and burdened lately, and it was all his fault.

**_CM: Do-re-mi-fa-sol-fa-mi-re do-mi-sol-mi-do …_**

His father had been frighteningly ill-tempered the weeks following Dumbledore’s visit, and he and Virginia had gotten into many fights over the question of Mycroft’s future.  Siger had refused to believe in wizards and magic, convinced that Dumbledore was nothing more than a con artist who wanted a piece of the Holmes fortune (nevermind that Hogwarts had no tuition, that wasn’t the _point—)_

“He should be attending a decent public school, Virginia—not traipsing off to Scotland at the whim of some senile old man!  What future is there for Mycroft at a school no one has heard of?  It is a shameful waste of his potential!”

Virginia never raised her voice during their fights but stood steadfast and resolute nonetheless.  “I trust in our son, Siger.  He is more brilliant than we can ever imagine.  If he believes in Dumbledore, then so will I.  If he wants to go to Hogwarts, then I shall not deny him.”

The more they fought, the angrier Siger became.  He grew more violent, invading Mycroft’s room to procure his Hogwarts acceptance letter, which he then burned (Mycroft had already memorised it, fortunately, and was able to transcribe it perfectly down to the last potion ingredient).  He swept his arm across the dinner table and broke many china dishes during an altercation with Virginia at supper.  He ignored Mycroft’s existence, except to glare at him with utter disgust—but the final straw was when he struck Sherlock across the face for spilling a bit of tea over the desk in the study.

“Father, that’s enough!” Mycroft had shouted, leaping to his feet.  “Just stop! If you’re angry with me, _be_ angry with me!  Leave Sherlock and Mummy out of it!”

Sherlock, tearful and clutching his stinging cheek, scurried out of the study, pausing when Mycroft didn’t follow—but Mycroft just shook his head.  He wouldn’t flee, not this time. Enough was enough.  The fight between father and eldest son was long overdue.

**_EM: Do-re-mi-fa-sol-fa-mi-re do-mi-sol-mi-do ..._**

Siger had wasted no time.  “Explain yourself to me, boy.  What is going through your head? You have so much potential—why so willing to waste it on a fairytale?  It’s not rational or logical.  It’s not _like_ you!”

A fury that had been building up for many weeks suddenly burst out of Mycroft in a fireworks display of temper.  “How would you know what was like me and what wasn’t?!  You’ve never been around long enough to notice!”

“Don’t you dare raise your voice to me, boy.”

“I’ll dare!  I’ll dare so long as _you_ dare to raise your hand against Sherlock.”

Siger’s face flushed an angry red, and he snarled at his son.  “MAGIC IS NOT REAL!  HOGWARTS IS **NOT _REAL!_** YOU ARE DELUSIONAL, AND I SHOULD SHIP YOU OFF TO A LOONY BIN, YOU AND YOUR FOOL OF A MOTHER—”

Mycroft’s fist clenched.  He was so angry … _so angry_ … and the whole room seemed to vibrate with his fury.  And it _was_ , Mycroft distantly realized—the books on the shelves and all the hangings on the walls were shaking as if they were in the midst of an earthquake.  Siger was startled out of his rage as books began falling to the floor, glancing around in alarm and steadying himself on the desk.

“What’s … is this an … earthquake?”

Still, the fury coursed through Mycroft’s body, and still more violently the room had shook.  All the fights, all Mummy’s quiet tears … Mycroft was going to put an end to it.  _Show him_ , a voice in the back of his mind had urged, and Mycroft felt the pull of some unknown force within him, like a dog pulling at an unwanted leash.  _Show him he is wrong.  Prove your power.  Make him see._  

Curious—but still so angry, so angry—Mycroft prodded at that force.

And suddenly, the room wasn’t _just_ shaking.  The books were not _just_ falling.  They were _levitating_ , rising from the ground like so many paper ghosts, turning their sharp corners towards Siger in threatening displays.

Siger’s face drained of colour, and he staggered back several paces.  “What—w-what—”

“I am not delusional, Father,” Mycroft growled, his voice lower than it had ever sounded before.  “ **You are.**   You are, to not see the truth that is right in front of you.”

Siger’s horrified eyes turned to his son.  “You …?  Are _you_ —?”

“Yes, Father.  I am the one doing this.  _I_ have magic! I am the one who has been telling you the truth this whole time—do you believe me _now?_ ” 

He let the books fall back to the floor, his point made.  They fell in flurries, and for a few moments, there was no sound in the room but the fluttering of many pages.  Then, when the last book had fallen, Mycroft said, “So you see, I _will_ go to Hogwarts, and there is literally _nothing_ you can do to stop me.”

Siger was breathing hard, staring at the books like they would sprout fangs and attack him.  When he seemed convinced they wouldn’t move again, he finally stood up from where he had fallen against the back wall and turned back to his son. 

He stared.  Mycroft had never seen his Father, or indeed _anybody_ , look at him like that before.  He felt like he was a stranger—no, worse than that.  He felt like he was a _creature_ , something inhuman.  There was astonishment in Siger’s eyes, but it was the fear there that turned Mycroft’s stomach.  He never wanted to be looked at like that again. 

Siger opened his mouth, then thought better of it and closed it again.  He was still pale, and his hands shook.  He paced, movements jerky, only to stop dead and stare at Mycroft again with that awful expression on his face.

“Say something, Father.”  Mycroft’s anger had drained with the rest of his energy at his little temper tantrum, leaving him to feel exhausted and resigned.

“… That was not normal.   _You_ are not normal.  You are no son of mine, and there’s nothing left to say after that.”  Without a further word, Siger turned around and left the room, leaving his frozen son standing in the wrecked room. 

That night, Mycroft and Sherlock had huddled together as they heard shouting, the crashes of objects being thrown, and the sound of their mother sobbing. 

By morning, Siger Holmes was long gone.

**_FM: Do-re-mi-fa-sol-fa-mi-re do-mi-sol-mi-do …_** ****

“Mycroft, my darling.” 

His mother’s voice startled Mycroft out of his reverie, and he looked up to see her looking at him with sad eyes.  She placed a gentle hand on his cheek in a gentle caress and smiled adoringly at him.  “Don’t put the weight of the world on your shoulders.  Today is a happy day.”

Mycroft closed his eyes and put his hand over his mother’s.  “Mummy …”

Abruptly there came a loud bout of knocking on the front door.  Sherlock froze, eyes wide, and then he threw down his violin in excitement.  “Yes! They awe here!”  Mycroft swiftly followed suit, leaping to his feet and striding briskly out to the front door.

The wizard was still knocking on his door, bellowing “HELLOO!  ANYBODY HOME?” Mycroft could tell he was male, early forties, with a Bristol accent.  There was another voice besides his, very young, hissing in embarrassment. 

“Dad!  Shut it!  You’re disturbing the whole neighbourhood!  Look, they have one o’ them ringers for the door.  Press that li’l circle there!” 

“Oh, I see!” 

And then, the loud knocking turned into loud, successive rings of their booming doorbell as the wizard stabbed the button repeatedly.  Sherlock clapped hands over his ears, looking incredulous.

Wincing, Mycroft hurriedly threw open the door.  “Yes! Yes, we’re here, _please_ stop.” 

The wizard on the front porch looked contrite.  He was tall, with dark hair peppered with grey, and stubble on his cheeks and chin.  His eyes were a mahogany brown, and they crinkled as he smiled down at Mycroft.  What stuck out the most about him, however, was his attire—he wasn’t wearing robes as Dumbledore had been, but Mycroft almost wished he _were_.  

A suit jacket over a plaid jumper, checkered trousers and bright yellow Wellingtons … and this was the man Dumbledore had trusted with Mycroft and his family?  Perhaps they were better off finding their _own_ way to the Wizarding World. 

“Hello there,” the man said cheerfully, completely unaware that he was a walking eyesore.  “Are you Mycroft?”

“ _What_ awe you weawing?” Sherlock gasped out in horror, coming to stand next to his brother.  “You look like a homeless perwson.” He seemed to think about what he said then, and his horror turned to extreme interest.  “Homeless people awe intewesting.”

The man looked delighted to see the curly-headed child, though Mycroft noticed that he ignored Sherlock’s rude question.  “Ah, hello little fella! Ain’t you as cute as a Jarvey*?”  He ignored Sherlock’s indignant sputtering.

“Dad …” a younger voice groaned, and a boy about Mycroft’s age stepped out from behind the strange wizard. Mycroft turned to him, and his eyebrows rose in obvious interest.  The boy had short hair like his father, but his was bright silver in colour.  Mycroft recognised it as a natural pigmentation; the tousled strands didn’t have the right texture to suggest a dye-job.  Mycroft wondered if it was a strange manifestation of the boy’s magic.

The young wizard grinned toothily at Mycroft and stuck out a thumb to indicate the older wizard next to him.  “Sorry ‘bout him.  He doesn't get out in the Muggle world much.  The name’s Gregory Lestrade, nice ta meet ya!”  He stuck out his hand.

Mycroft assessed the boy.  Friendly, easy-going, a tendency towards casualty.  He looked average, in jeans and a soft blue button-down. “Mycroft Holmes.”  He took the proffered hand.

“Well, Mycroft,” said the older Lestrade, as his son vigorously shook the ginger’s hand, “We're here ta take you and yer folks to Diagon Alley!  Are you ready to go…?” 

Mycroft didn’t even hesitate.  _“Yes.”_

* * *

 

***From Fantastic Beasts & Where to Find Them:  “[The Jarvey] resembles an overgrown ferret in most respects, except for the fact that it can talk. [It] tends to confine itself to short (and often rude) phrases in an almost constant stream […]”.**

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget: aufanficfanatic@tumblr.com
> 
> Next time, Diagon Alley.


	4. Acculturation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft gets dressed, gets a wand, and finds a new feathered friend.
> 
> Arty Lestrade gets a shock.
> 
> Sherlock gets a rock. In the head. Off-screen. Yay!

After introductions and a spot of tea, the Lestrade and Holmes families all stood outside on the front walk, ready for departure—with one notable exception. 

“Now, you be good for the Lestrades, Sherlock.  I don’t want to hear one negative thing about your behaviour, do you understand?”

“Yes, Mummy.” 

“Mycroft, dear, you have the money I gave you?”

“Yes. Are you _positive_ you won’t come with us?”  Mycroft’s words were deliberately precise and stated quite calmly—which usually meant he was feeling emotional and trying to hide it.  He was just a bit uncomfortable going to London with near-strangers without his Mummy, but she was adamant about staying behind.

“I’m positive.  This exciting new experience belongs only to you.  That letter doesn’t have my name or anyone else’s on it.”  She leant down to kiss the top of his immaculate ginger head. “New people, new places, a whole new world, all yours.  Though really, quite sorry about Sherlock; he’ll just have to be a tag-along.”

All in present company laughed with Virginia, ignoring Sherlock’s indignant screech. Lestrade Sr. bowed to her once again (he’d been doing it so much, Mycroft had figured it was just an odd wizarding custom) and kissed the back of her hand, like some chivalrous knight in shining yellow Wellies.  “Not-a-worry, Madam Holmes, not-a-worry!  Your boys are safe with me!  We’ll bring ‘em home safe and sound.” 

Virginia left with another round of kisses to her boys, and hearty farewells all around.  When the door had shut, Sherlock turned eagerly and looked all about the driveway for some kind of wizard motorcar, but found nothing.  “Where is your car?” he demanded loudly, pale gaze still roving over the area. Mycroft even caught him eyeing the _trees_ if that wasn’t the most ridiculous thing—

“Oh, we didn’t _drive,_ ” the boy, Gregory, said with an impish grin as if telling some secret joke. “We Apparated and it was _brilliant!_ My first Side-Along …!”

Arty Lestrade patted his son on the back.  “But that’s not an option now, not with four o’ ya.  Could’a done a Portkey, but to be honest I didn’t want to deal with the paperwork.  So the Knight Bus it is!”

“…” Sherlock turned an inquisitive brow to his brother, but Mycroft just shook his head—he had no idea either. The Lestrades turned down the drive and beckoned the Holmes brothers to follow—and they did, jogging to catch up, dismissing their ignorance as temporary and therefore inconsequential. They would find out soon enough.

* * *

 

Oh, how Mycroft wished he’d never had to find out.  _Oh God_ , how he wished.

The Knight Bus was a transportation service straight out of _hell_ , flying forwards at breakneck speeds that should’ve been impossible for four patchy wheels and a dubious centre of gravity.  Where the bloody hell were the laws of physics when you needed them?

Currently, they were located on the second level of the double-decker, on a squishy purple couch that was being flung back and forth as the monstrous vehicle zigged and zagged its way through the countryside and into London. Sherlock, the irritating little cretin, was laughing and screeching with delight, having the ride of his life, while Mycroft clung to the arm of the couch with white knuckles and got greener and greener about the face.  About the time they were entering the city limits (and had to have an entire line of lorries jump out of their way) Mycroft lost control, scrambling forwards for the waste bin and losing his breakfast in it.

“Sorry, mate,” said Greg in his ear, and he wrapped a steady arm around Mycroft’s waist to keep them both anchored through the pitching. “It’s rough going if you’re not used to it.”

Mycroft tried to reply, but only ended up vomiting his words.

Finally, _finally_ , the Knight Bus reached its destination, and Mycroft was allowed to disembark on shaky legs. Sherlock skipped along behind him, still irritatingly delighted, and now a tinge smug at his brother’s moment of weakness. 

“Sherlock. Shut.  Up.” Mycroft gasped, glaring as hard as he could. Arty came up behind him, taking in Mycroft’s ashen face and shaking limbs worriedly. 

“You all right there?” 

Greg patted Mycroft on the back gently.  “Yeah, Dad, he’s okay.  A little lighter in the gullet, but that’s about the norm for the Knight Bus, innit?” 

Arty immediately began rustling around in his bag.  “Just the thing for that, wait just a tick …” Mycroft looked at the bag in alarm as an incongruous clattering sounded from within it, like many heavy objects falling over in a large warehouse instead of a little cloth satchel. “Ah, here we are!” He pulled out a large bar of chocolate in beautiful gold foil.  He broke off a square and handed it to Mycroft. “That’ll put the colour back in your cheeks!” 

Mycroft looked at the sweet dubiously, unsure how exactly chocolate would help his roiling stomach—but he was much too fond of sugar to refuse, so he obediently nibbled on a corner.  As soon as he had swallowed, he reeled back in surprise.  “Oh!”  The chocolate was a warmth going all the way down to his stomach, where it sat radiating comfort to his churning stomach acid and chased the nausea away. 

Arty grinned and clapped a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. “There you are! Back to normal. Now, let’s go get yours and Greggy’s school things, shall we?” 

“Da! Don’t call me that!”

Mycroft turned to look at the dingy little pub the bus had let them out at, pretending not to feel Sherlock nicking the rest of the wizard’s chocolate from his pocket as he did so.  “The Leaky Cauldron,” he read warily, just barely making out the words on the sun-faded, crooked sign.  “ _This_ is a wizard’s shop?  It looks like it ought to be condemned as a _health hazard_.”

Sherlock’s head shot up.  “What?” His eyes scanned Charing Cross Road, and to Mycroft’s surprise they never _once_ landed on the squalid little building in front of them.  Instead, they slid from the record shop straight to the bookstore sandwiching the place, never registering the middle.  “Where?  I don’t see any Leaky Cauldwon! Is it in this wecord shop?  That's a stupid disguise.  What if someone wanted a wecord?  And here I assumed you all want to be a secwet." 

And now Mycroft noticed that Sherlock was not the only one—the eyes of all passers-by moved past the dusty façade as if they couldn’t see The Leaky Cauldron at all.  “Sherlock...” 

Lestrade Senior, who knelt by Sherlock and gently placed a hand on his shoulder, saved him from having to come up with an explanation.  “This place is protected by magic, lad, ‘cause you’re absolutely right—wizards have to stay a secret.  Can’t do that by flaunting a storefront on a Muggle street, can we?—so we made it invisible. It’s going to be hard to see, what with yer magic not manifesting yet, but look _really_ hard at the space between these two buildings.  Do you see it?  The Leaky Cauldron,” the old man pressed gently, directing Sherlock’s gaze exactly where it needed to be to see.

The frustration on his brother’s face answered that question. The four-year-old concentrated, and squinted, and moved his gaze furiously over the visible edifices, but Mycroft could tell he never even caught a glimpse of it.  The Lestrades exchanged glances. 

Suddenly irritated, Mycroft marched up to his lost brother and took him firmly by the hand.  “Follow me, Sherlock, and I’ll lead you inside.”  Greg recovered quickly and went to hold open the door.  

“Best take it at a run, mate.  It’s gonna look to him like he’s running into a brick wall.” 

Sherlock’s eyes widened.  “It … it _is_ a bwick wall!” 

Mycroft started running.

“Wait wait wait!  It’s a wall, Mycwoft—we’ll cwash…!”  But they didn’t. Mycroft went over the threshold and Sherlock, with a stuttered gasp, was dragged after him. 

The barman and smattering of people in the pub all looked up when two children came barrelling through the door, one screeching at the top of his lungs. 

“’Ey now, lads, pipe down won’t ye?”

Mycroft let go of Sherlock, flushing more with exertion than embarrassment. Did he ever mention that he _hated_ rigorous exercise?  Gregory and his father strolled in casually behind them, smoothing things over with the barman. 

Together they moved to the back of the pub, Greg pointing out the pair of vampires in the back booth discreetly to Sherlock, who was much less subtle in his gawking.  “But you haven’t seen _anything_ yet,” he said louder, grinning at both Holmes as they went out to a little courtyard and faced another brick wall (Sherlock eyed it dubiously).  “Check _this_ out!” 

Lestrade Senior produced his wand from inside his jacket, and counted three bricks up and two across from the bin lid, and then tapped it thrice. Sherlock gasped loudly, and even Mycroft couldn’t contain his shock and awe as the bricks rolled back in layers, forming an archway that at the very top pronounced DIAGON ALLEY. 

And suddenly they were not in a dirty back alley but engulfed in a crowded, colourful cacophony of light and sound. Men and women alike, mostly in wizarding garb the likes of Dumbledore’s, milled about the shops lining each side of the street. Cats and children wended their way through legs, owls hooted and swooped overhead, and all manner of magic cavorted about the place, from the moving pictures on the fliers hung about to the enchanted window displays. 

Mycroft was lightheaded with wonderment, and he distantly noted that his jaw was hanging open but he couldn’t do a single thing about it.  The Wizarding World, at last …!  It was unlike anything Mycroft had pictured, (although admittedly that wasn’t saying much considering he wasn’t very imaginative). Still … this wonderful, lively world had a _place_ for him, and nothing had ever seemed more incredible to him than that simple fact. 

Sherlock reached out and steadied himself on Mycroft’s thigh, his knees apparently gone to water.  _“Mycwoft …”_ he breathed, barely heard over the rabble. 

“I know.” 

Arty grinned.  “Welcome to Diagon Alley, boys!  Right then. Off to Gringott’s first, I believe, to open young Mycroft here an account.  Greggie, why don’t you take the little tyke and start your own shopping? You’re gonna be a big Second-Year this year; you can be responsible.”  He ignored both angry faces to plant a large hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. “Come on, lad. We’ll get you set up as a right proper wizard, we will!” 

With plans to meet up later, the group split: Greg and Sherlock into the nearest shop and Mycroft and Arty up to the top of the hill, where Mycroft’s future was waiting to start.

 

* * *

  

Mycroft left the bank two hours later with the key to his own vault and a jingling pouch of currency (whose names and conversions he’d already memorised). It didn’t leave much time for shopping before they needed to meet up with Greg and Sherlock, so he mentally prioritised his shopping list.

“Madam Malkin’s is right here if you wanna do that first,” Arty suggested, pointing to a building on the left-hand side of the street coming from the bank. _Robes for All Occasions,_ the sign declared. 

A wizard-tailor was not all that different from a traditional tailor, Mycroft discovered, as fat Madam Malkin prattled noisily on to her captive audience and poked him with sewing needles.  Except, of course, for the floating tape measure and self-scissoring scissors. That was different. 

“All the accoutrements, dear boy, all the accoutrements—the cuffs and tie are colourless now, but that’ll change as soon as your Sorted—they’ll be your house colours, you know.  And also, these white patches here, they’ll be your House crest.  Clever little charm, a dear family secret!” When the uniform was all magically folded and packed away in a dress box, Mycroft had to pick out a cloak from the sample rack.  She gushed over his selection. “Oh, a fine choice! The best money can buy. Thick material, pure silver fastenings—the lining is made from the pelt of a chimaera, which produces its own heat! Quite rare, quite rare. You’ll never be cold!” 

Mycroft had reached out to feel, and to his surprise Arty had as well, petting the soft fur with an awestruck look on his face.  Suddenly it seemed quite _rude_ to be flaunting his family’s wealth in front of the lower-middle-class man, but he didn’t quite know what to do about it.  His mother had insisted on the best, and the best is what Mycroft was used to.

An hour and a half later saw the pair finally leaving the shop, laden with several dress boxes tied up with string and secured with a wax seal. They had only an hour before they were to meet the others. 

“Where to next?” Arty asked. 

Mycroft didn’t hesitate. “Regardless of the closeness of the shop, I must insist on getting my wand.  I’ve waited _months_ for it; I can hardly stand to wait another minute.” 

Arty chuckled, and they headed back down the cobbled street to the complete opposite end, where Ollivander’s Wand Shop lay.  Arty took his boxes and had a seat outside, ushering Mycroft through the door with the promise of staying put.  “Wands choose the wizards, Mycroft, and they can get a bit nasty if they decide not to like you.  I’ll be less inclined to be collateral damage if I wait here.” 

With that rather ominous sentiment, Mycroft stepped inside the dusty little shop alone.  A little bell tinkled somewhere in the depths of the store, hidden by stacks upon stacks of thin narrow boxes—wands. 

“Hmm … first child in the family. Don’t know which family—ah, but an _old_ family, yes …” The unexpected muttering coming from behind him startled Mycroft badly. He whirled around, only to come face-to-face with a wispy old man with startlingly wide silver eyes, pouring pale light into the dusk like lamps. 

“H-hello, I’m, er … here for a wand?”  Mycroft cursed himself for the obvious statement, flushing deeply. He didn’t like being startled. 

The man continued to mutter to himself as he looked over Mycroft’s form. “Tall, red hair, the put-upon airs of Pure house—hm, might you be a Macmillian? Or perhaps a Prewett relative?” 

“No, Sir.  It’s Holmes—Mycroft Holmes.” 

Ollivander’s eyes narrowed, and then widened in realisation.  His large eyes looked like twin moons set against his face, which was quite disconcerting.  “A _Muggleborn_! How truly delightful!” He suddenly grinned, eyes still wide, and shook Mycroft’s hand.   “Magnificent! It is rare that I am fooled by appearances, Mr Holmes! This should be a wonderfully challenging consultation, indeed.  Muggleborns almost always are. _Come_ , dear boy, come up to the counter.”  

Ollivander continued mumbling distractedly. “Yes—for you, subtlety will be the key … I have _just_ the wand!” He disappeared down one of the narrow aisles. He returned with a beechwood wand; which, when Mycroft picked it up, somewhat shuddered and made a sound like a blown raspberry.  He flushed in embarrassment, but Ollivander only whisked the wand away. “Nevermind, my boy—we need subtlety, yes, but perhaps not _that_ much. Let me try …” 

Mycroft handled a few more wands, each time receiving lacklustre and sometimes violent responses from the objects in question.  Mycroft began to grow uncomfortable in the wake of so much failure, but Ollivander only became more excited. 

“My, my! Such a challenge, Mr Holmes! I like that in a customer. We can expect good things from you, yes indeed!  Let’s see: subtle with a regal presence, elegant charm, cleverness with just a touch of candour … **_Oh_**! Oh, I know _just_ the wand, wait a moment!”

At first glance, the wand lying in the velvet-lined box looked the same as many of the other wands Mycroft had tried that morning.  It was about the same length as his elbow-to-wrist ratio, and the wood had a beautiful cream-coloured hue.  “Elmwood, eleven inches, solid, and containing a single hair from the tail of a Unicorn. Go on and give it a wave!” Ollivander urged. 

As it turned out, Mycroft didn’t even _need_ to wave it. As soon as he’d laid a single finger on its polished surface, the wand shuddered violently in its box, and a frisson of sheer _anticipation_ had rocketed down Mycroft’s spine, leaving him breathless and grinning. As he closed his fingers around it, gold lights spiralled out of the tip, making whistling noises as they sailed up towards the ceiling and exploded into bright sparks. 

“Ah, the strong reaction of a wand well-matched,” Ollivander sighed delightedly as he boxed up the wand and took the seven Galleons payment. Mycroft tried not to look too eager as he took hold of the box. 

"Thank you, sir!  Good day!" 

“Oh, Mr Holmes …” Mycroft had been nearly out the door when Ollivander’s soft voice called him back from the sunshine.  He turned to see eyes fixed on him in consideration.  “In the course of a lifetime, a man pays his loyalties to a great many institutions, both just, unjust, wise and unwise … but we must first and foremost be loyal to _ourselves_. The wand you hold in your hand has the potential to be your most formidable ally. Use it wisely—Elm wands will not suffer fools.” 

Confused and alarmed (why were so many of the wizards he met fond of giving him random lectures?  First Dumbledore, now Ollivander ...) Mycroft muttered a “Yes, sir” and left the dusk behind.

 

* * *

 

“Well,” Arty sighed after all the packages had been gathered, “There are several options at this point, Mycroft.  We can shop-hop and pick up the extraneous supplies, like quills and parchment, or we’ve just enough time to hit Eyelops Owl Emporium if you want to pick out a bird.  And by that I mean an owl and _not_ a woman,” he added with an impish grin, laughing at the way Mycroft’s cheeks pinked. “It’s also right across from Florean Fortescue's, so there’d be no rush afterwards.” 

Mycroft almost dismissed the notion—he already _had_ an animal.  The letter had said he was allowed a cat, so he would bring Peter along.  But after chewing on his decision, he soon changed his mind. Taking Peter would mean leaving Sherlock without a friend in the house, which was unacceptable. It would be more logical to leave the cat at home, where he could keep an eye on the accident-prone child. Despite all his yowling otherwise, Peter was quite fond of the boy, so Mycroft knew he could trust him in this.

That decided, they went the Owl Emporium, where Mycroft began the tedious process of interviewing every specimen that caught his eye. The beautiful barn owl he’d chosen first had talked too much; the medium-sized brown owl was too stupid. The Screech owl too catty, the tawny too needy—Arty followed dubiously behind him, watching Mycroft talking to birds that seemed to chirrup back, growing more and more confused until he could take it no longer. 

“What are you, uh … looking for, exactly?  We’ve seen many beautiful owls …” He tapered off as if feeling rude for asking at all. Mycroft turned his green eyes away from a pompous Snowy owl to look at the man. For a moment, it sounded like he’d intended to ask a different question, but changed his mind at the last minute. No matter. He responded honestly. 

“I’m looking for an owl with a personality that doesn’t put me off. Some manners and a shred of intelligence would be nice.  The owls we’ve seen so far all talk too much.”  He sent a disapproving glare to the Snowy owl on the perch behind him. “Or are irritating _narcissists_.” The Snowy looked over its beak at him and hooted in reprimand. 

 _At least I have good looks to admire, Ugly._   Mycroft gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to knock its cage over. 

Arty looked even more confused at this, even a little bit sceptical. “What do you mean, talk too much? I don’t think you’ll find an owl that doesn’t hoot at least _occasionally_.”

“Sir, it is not the hoot, but what is _intended_ by the hoot that rankles me.  If I am to have a Familiar, it should not be one so inane a conversationalist.” He moved on from the Snowy to a cage tucked up in the back, almost out-of-sight.  It was thicker than the others, and inside was a large, intimidating Tiger owl. It looked down at him warily, but not distastefully.

“Hm. The placement of your cage would indicate that you possess a certain characteristic that the owners of this shop find undesirable in a partner.  So tell me, do you bite _everyone_ , or is it just the shop owners?”

The orange-and-brown spotted owl hooted softly.  _I don’t like unworthy humans_. 

“I see.  And if I were to buy you, would you bite me?  Am I unworthy?” 

Arty now had an incredulous look on his face.  “You’re not _really_ … I mean you can’t really _talk_ with owls, it’s … that’s—” 

“Why? Have you ever tried it?” The words were casually tossed over his shoulder.  His eyes remained on the cage. Mycroft was more interested in the owl. 

The Tiger owl cocked its head almost ninety degrees.  _You listen. You hear the words unspoken and understand them. It is … interesting. I suppose I could leave your finger unbloodied if you got me out of here._  

And so, after convincing the shop owners that _yes,_ he really did want this owl, and making sure that the awful cage was replaced by a pleasing wicker one, Mycroft bought himself a new companion. 

Outside, he was confronted by an awestruck Arty.  “ _Cor blimey_.  You're a Strigimouth, then?” 

“I beg your pardon?”

“You can speak to owls. How long have you been able to speak to owls?” 

Mycroft blinked. “I don’t know. I haven’t exactly spoken to owls before today.” 

Arty’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “How did you know _to_ speak to them, then?” 

Mycroft shrugged. “I’ve been talking to animals since I was little.  I’ve spoken to rabbits and cats, and plenty of other birds.  It didn’t cross my mind that I wouldn’t be able to talk to owls.” 

Arty looked absolutely gobsmacked. “Wha—you can speak to … _bloody hell!”_  

Now Mycroft was getting confused, and just a bit defensive.  “What? I’m a wizard; surely there are lots of wizards who can speak to animals.  The entire _concept_ of a Familiar would support this conclusion—“ 

“Yeah, _some_ can talk to one type of animal … but never more than one! I’ve never heard of a wizard who could talk to _all of them!_   That’s … if you’re telling the truth, that’s _**amazing!”**_ His eyes were wide, and he was gesturing wildly with his hands, drawing attention from passers-by.  

Mycroft didn’t know what to think. He’d never even considered that his talent for tolerating the chattering of animals was extraordinary even by wizard’s standards.  Was this some new level of strangeness, or was it connected to his abilities as a Silvertongue? Just what exactly was he capable of? 

They walked across the street to Florean Fortescue, Arty shooting Mycroft odd glances all the while. Mycroft kept his eyes determinedly forward, fighting a blush and rising bile in his throat—the way Arty Lestrade looked at him was exactly how Father had looked at him, the night he walked out on Mummy. He _hated_ that look, like he was something to fear, a _freak._ He decided right then and there that he would never talk to animals again in front of other people—he would keep this talent a secret, along with his silver tongue. 

Too much attention was, after all, a dangerous thing.

 

* * *

 

At the end of the day, all shopping tucked away in Mycroft’s new magical trunk (it was light as a briefcase and was much larger inside than it was outside), they braved the Knight Bus once again for a ride back to Sussex and the Holmes estate.  It was a relief for all of them—Sherlock had been getting unbearable as he got more and more exhausted, and Mycroft himself was tiring of the tension between him and Lestrade Sr. It had been there since the Owl Emporium.  The man spoke to him differently now.  He wasn’t unfriendly, per say, but it was careful. A bit chary.  Mycroft didn’t like it. 

And really, there had been tension _everywhere_ , in the way wizards and glanced warily at one another, in the way shoppers had scuttled from shop to shop, never pausing to socialise in the street, in the whispers and furtive glances.  Sherlock had noticed it keenly.  He told Mycroft of an incidence in Flourish and Blott’s where a group of boys had cornered Greg to jeer and call him a Mudblood.  When Sherlock had come to the rescue by insulting the kids’ inbred parents and lack of intelligence, they had turned on him, calling him a filthy Muggle and throwing stones at his head as Greg ushered him away.  When a horrified Mycroft had interrogated Greg, the silver-haired boy was vague and dismissive, just saying that the Dark Arts were getting popular again and people were afraid. 

Greg and Arty saw them off at the end of their drive with fond farewells (Arty still treating Mycroft with kid-gloves), and a promise from the younger that he would see Mycroft on the train.  They’d stayed on the bus, which disappeared in the blink of an eye and a loud bang.

Mummy was already in bed by the time they got into the house, and Sherlock followed suit immediately, leaving Mycroft to lug his new belongings upstairs by himself. He left his trunk by the end of the bed and cleared a space on top of his dresser for his new owl’s cage. The Tiger owl screeched, hopping restlessly around his perch.  _If you keep me in here one-second longer I **will** bite you.  Let me out.  I want to hunt._  

“Yes, here—I’ll open a window.”  He opened his bedroom window and then hit the latch on the wicker cage. “I still need a name for you.”

The owl hopped out on the edge of the dresser and then flew across the room to perch on his desk chair.   _Then give me one.  Don’t make it stupid. And hurry up._  

Mycroft thought carefully.  “I don’t know; I’m not very creative.  I want it to be sophisticated, something noble …” He looked helplessly around his room for inspiration.  “Greek philosophers’ names would be too pompous.  Rousseau is too French.  Marx, too _communist._ Orwell—good heavens, no.  Hm.  I need some better books.” 

The owl ruffled his feathers.  _Bored._   Mycroft almost chuckled at that.  “Perhaps I should call you Sherlock.”  He did laugh, after that, when the owl gave him such a scandalised look and called the name ridiculous. 

But he had found his inspiration—thinking of Sherlock made him think of the violin and that piece his brother was currently sawing out.  It was a concerto by Mozart.  “Amadeus.  What about that? It’s elegant and sophisticated and sounds lovely.  I like it.” 

The newly-christened Amadeus tilted his head 90 degrees and hooted softly. _It’s not terrible.  It’ll do._ He then spread his considerable wingspan and sailed out of the open window. 

Mycroft followed and sat on the windowsill to watch him go, putting his head in his hands and whispering softly to the ever-shrinking form in the skies. 

“Goodnight …”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to take this moment to explain the idea behind Mycroft's ability to speak to animals.
> 
> By creating the concept of Parselmouth and writing the scene with Harry at the zoo, JK Rowling has shown that the animals of Harry’s world possess an aptitude for communication that rivals a human’s. To those who can speak their language, the animals can communicate with human-like gestures and sentiments. The way she depicts owls also confirm this idea—they respond to and interact constantly with the wizards, often showing human emotions. (How often has Hedwig looked reproachful, or angry, or has responded violently to a careless comment?) 
> 
> So why stop at just snakes? Digging through folklore and legends, we see many stories of witches and their Familiars—snakes, yes; but also spiders, ravens, cats, hares, owls, etc. So if there is a snake-language, why can't there also be a cat-language, and a rabbit-language, and an owl-language? And if the languages are magical, an instinctive form of communication that cannot be taught (again as evidence by Harry's Parseltongue) then wouldn't a Silvertongue—a person who is so attuned to the magic of words that they can wield it as a weapon—instinctively feel the power in any language and interpret it accordingly? Wouldn't a master of all words also be considered a master of all languages? 
> 
> So therefore, the Silvertongues in my story are not only capable of manipulating the minds of men, but also communicating with and manipulating a myriad of fauna. It’s a bit of risky storytelling, making Mycroft so unique even as a magic-touting wizard genius, but I own up to that fact. This isn't professional writing, it's just for fun, so it's all good.
> 
> Hope that clears up any doubts that have been surfacing over my plot choices.


	5. Betook

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft could admit that he was stung. He could admit he was angry, and disappointed. But that would suggest Mycroft Holmes needed another person’s affection to feel validated, which he absolutely did not. So instead, he lifted his nose in the air again and strutted down the corridor like he owned the whole damned train, looking for another compartment to sit in.
> 
> If I happen to fly over him one day, I’ll be sure to aim straight for that bright hair of his, Ama hooted scornfully. Mycroft startled, not realizing his owl had awoken, and then turned his lip corner up in an appreciative smirk. 
> 
> “That is disgusting. The sentiment, however, is appreciated.”

“SHERLOCK HOLMES! BRING BACK MY WAND THIS INSTANT!” 

It was August 28th, only three days until Mycroft left for Hogwarts.  He still had two more books he needed to read before he even felt remotely prepared for school, not to mention countless spells that needed practicing—and he should really go through his checklist again, make sure he had everything, and where the bloody hell was his insufferable brother with that wand …? 

A curly head poked through the door, and quicksilver eyes took in Mycroft’s appearance with an unimpressed sneer.  “You look terrible,” said the four-year-old, his R’s gentle and perfectly rounded (he’d finally decided to master the sound, which had taken him only half a particularly rainy afternoon). “I’m going to tell Mummy you’re panicking again.” 

Mycroft ignored the threat, his mind still reeling with all he wanted to accomplish before September the 1st.  “Sherlock, I know you’ve filched my wand again—I need it. There are several spells I’d like to practice before supper. Bring it back.” 

Sherlock scowled and stepped fully into the room, Mycroft’s pale wand clutched in a frustrated fist at his side.  “I still think it’s faulty,” he whinged, glaring at it heatedly.  “It doesn’t  _do_  anything! It won’t work for me at all!” He waved it and started muttering all the spells he’d learned from Mycroft’s textbooks, while the ginger wizard rolled his eyes and heaved an exasperated sigh. 

“Sherlock, I told you what Mr Lestrade said.  Wands choose the wizards, and that wand did not choose you!  It won’t respond because it’s not yours. Will you give it back now?” 

Sherlock just chanted over him. “Lumos! Alohamora!  _Reparo! Wingardium Leviosa! **Flipendo**_!” His voice got steadily louder and louder, and by the end, he wasn’t waving the wand so much as stabbing the air with it. 

Amadeus, the owl, hooted irritably from his favourite perch on Mycroft’s armoire.  _Human, make the little one shut up.  I’m trying to sleep!_  

“Sherlock, this is pointless!  Give it here before you poke someone’s eye out.”  With a shriek of frustration, Sherlock made as if to throw the wand on the floor—but ended up just gently placing it in Mycroft’s open hand.  “Thank you.” 

In a turnaround typical of the energetic little toddler, Sherlock sat down next to Mycroft’s slew of open textbooks and perused them interestedly.  “What are you working on today?” 

Mycroft, who had immediately begun practicing his ‘swish-and-flick’ wand motion, indicated one of the open pages with his free hand.  “There’s a curse in the Defence Against the Dark Arts book I wish to try—Locomotor Mortis, The Leg-Locker curse.  There’s also a Full-Body Bind, Petrificus Totalus. I could use a body, if you wouldn’t mind,” which he knew Sherlock wouldn’t.  The boy was all-too-eager to participate in Mycroft’s magical experiments whenever possible. 

“Okay!” Sherlock exclaimed, predictably.  

So Mycroft spent the rest of the afternoon happily incapacitating his brother, an exercise in stress relief that not only satiated his brother’s hunger for magic, but also made Mycroft feel much more relaxed (not that he’d tell Sherlock that). 

 

* * *

  

Mycroft had packed, dressed, and gone downstairs before the sun had even risen on September the 1st, still full of nervous anticipation and excitement that hadn’t allowed him to sleep for more than a few limited hours that night. 

He spent an hour and a half pacing the front hall before finally, someone else came downstairs for the day—it was Mummy, her appearance perfectly groomed and impeccable as always.  She seemed startled to see him.

“Mycroft, darling! Why are you doing up so early? Don’t tell me you’re developing your brother’s insomnia,” she said with a tone of exasperation. Mycroft didn’t blame her—it was a nightly struggle for her to get her little one into bed, and even if she succeeded it was never for very long.  Sherlock believed that sleeping was annoying, and there was just no telling him otherwise. 

“No, Mummy. I was too excited to sleep much. Surely you haven’t forgotten that I leave for Hogwarts today!” 

Virginia sighed. “Of course not. I have been dreading this day a little bit, to be honest.  You’ll be gone for most of the year; I can’t help it!  I feel like you’re leaving the nest already.”  She clucked her tongue in disappointment.  “What’s a poor mother to feel?  I worry that without you around I shall have to smother Sherlock in all my excess love, and I doubt he’d survive it.” 

Mycroft smiled soppily at his mother’s funny words, but his heart stung a little bit as well.  In all his excitement he’d forgotten that once he left, he wouldn’t see his Mummy for months.

To his surprise, Sherlock was still in his pyjamas when he finally shuffled downstairs, and when the three of them ate breakfast together, he was quiet and withdrawn. Mycroft thought he’d be dressed and bubbling with excitement and impatience for the day like he’d been for the Diagon Ally trip. 

“What’s the matter with you?” He asked, after fifteen minutes of not one interjection from the younger in the conversation—a rare feat practically unheard of.        

Sherlock looked up from the eggs he’d been poking at with a fierce expression on his face, aimed at Mummy of all people.  “Ask  _her_ ,” he exclaimed hotly, gripping his fork in a white-knuckled hand.  “Ask her what she was doing on the phone last night!  Ask her how you’re getting to King’s Cross Station today!” 

Bemused, Mycroft turned jade eyes upon his mother.  “What is he talking about?”

Virginia delicately set down her fork and daubed at her mouth with a cloth napkin before speaking. “It is rude to eavesdrop, Sherlock.” The curly-haired child sucked in a breath, and Mycroft could feel a tantrum coming on—but Virginia had already turned to her eldest.  “I was ordering you a taxi cab.  It will arrive at nine-thirty this morning and take you to London for your train.” 

Mycroft’s heart seized up in his chest, electrified in his shock.  “Why …  _why_  would we take a cab when we can use the car, Mummy?”  His mind was circling endlessly, looking for an explanation that didn’t fill him with dread.  

“Because she’s not going!” Sherlock cried, and Mycroft couldn’t muffle his sharp inhale. “She’s not going, and I’m not allowed to go, either!” 

“Mummy …?” 

Virginia was perfectly calm, taking a sip of breakfast tea before saying, “Of course you’re not going.  Don’t be silly, Sherlock; a four-year-old can’t take a taxi back from London all by himself. It’s just impossible.” 

Mycroft’s insides curled in anxiety. First, he’d had to go to Diagon Alley with strangers, and now he’d be going all the way to the busiest train station in England by himself! He couldn’t believe it.  It was like his mother was distancing herself from him—but why? What had he done to displease her? 

With considerable effort, he cleared the fog of selfish indignation from his mind. He knew it wasn’t him; it wasn’t right to accuse his beautiful mother of emotional abuse.  He took a breath, calming himself down, and thought about it rationally. She wasn’t distancing herself exclusively from him, but from the whole world.  Since her husband had abandoned them, Virginia had not left the house once, not even to go to her friends’ houses for tea like she used to every afternoon. In fact, she had hardly contacted them at all.  Siger’s betrayal had hit the family hard … but he could see that it had hit his Mummy the hardest of all. 

She reached across the table to place a hand over his.  “Don’t look so gloomy, darling, you know I would come with you if I could. But I’m afraid that I’m just not feeling up it. London is a fair distance away; it would be such a long trip. Sherlock cannot go because he is so young—but you, my clever little boy … I’m not worried about you at all!” She suddenly had tears in her eyes, as she stood up from the table and moved to cradle Mycroft in her bosom, petting his hair like she used to when he was Sherlock’s age, scared of the darkness at night.  He clutched her bony, pale arm and fought the sting in his eyes, threatening to well up in tears. 

Guilt curled up inside his throat and clogged his airway. He felt guilty that it was him who drove Father away and caused Mummy all this pain.  He felt guilty that he was abandoning her now as well, during such a time of loss and sadness.  He’d be gone all year.  How would that repay her for standing up to Siger for him? 

Sherlock had started that scoffing noise he always made when he was trying to hold in his feelings so Virginia held out her free hand to him.  He joined Mycroft in embracing their mother; a small family made smaller all lamenting their loss together—first of father, and now of son, even though Mycroft wasn’t actually leaving for good. 

“You will be brilliant, you know,” Virginia whispered fiercely into soft ginger strands. “Both of you.  My brave, smart boys.” She moved her lips to dark curls. “Magic or no magic, you will be capable of things your father and I couldn’t even imagine in our wildest daydreams! You are both revelations, and I pray to God each day that I will be there to witness all your triumphs.  I’m so  _proud_  of you!” 

Mycroft struggled viciously with his tears, managing to keep them locked up even though it was a near thing.  

Adrift as they were, choking in a sea of repressed emotion, the Holmes family nearly missed the sound of the doorbell ringing, signalling the arrival of the taxicab. “Oh, look at me, tearing up like a sentimental old fool,” Virginia admonished, relinquishing her hold on her children to daub carefully at her eyes with a tissue.  “That will be the driver—Mycroft, be a dear and get the door.”

 

* * *

  

Twenty minutes later saw Mycroft’s trunk packed carefully in the boot of the taxi, with Amadeus left in the backseat with the door still open, fast asleep. The cab driver had given the owl a strange look and made a comment about the number of pet owls he’d seen recently. Mycroft had wisely remained silent on the subject, but Sherlock had been born without any tact and therefore opened his mouth freely.  

“They apparently make great letter-carriers to a certain faction of people,” he had said, earning Mycroft’s elbow to his side. 

While Mummy settled the matter of the bill with the cabbie, Mycroft took his brother by the shoulder and led him around the other side of the car, to speak privately. “Sherlock.  This is goodbye until December.” 

Still rubbing his sore ribs, his younger brother frowned unhappily.  “I don’t see why I couldn’t take a cab by myself,” he muttered, sounding equal parts pouty and resigned.  “I ... I wanted to see Platform 9 ¾!  Mummy is deliberately depriving me of an opportunity to study magic!” Seeing his beloved older brother off of course had  _nothing_  to do with it. Mycroft sighed. 

“You will see it for yourself in a few years when it is  _your_  turn to go to Hogwarts,” he said calmly.  As predicted, the mention of his magical future cheered the boy up in record time.  

“Yes, well I still demand you write down all the data you gather from the trip in a letter and send it to me as soon as you get there,” Sherlock demanded. “ And while we’re on the subject, I want a letter at least once a day.  You will tell me about your classes and all the new magic spells you learn. I will  _not_  be taken by surprise when I finally do attend!” 

“You may receive a letter once a week, Sherlock.  I will have schoolwork to attend to; I cannot afford to fall behind.” 

“As if you won’t be more brilliant than everyone else in your class.  You’re  _always_  smarter than everyone else!” 

“Well, that’s the exciting bit, isn’t it?  I may be more intelligent than the average non-magical child, but I haven’t the foggiest about the average magical child!  I’m rather hoping that our advance minds are the norm for the wizarding world.” 

Sherlock looked unconvinced.  “Having met Lestrade makes me doubt it.  But, nevertheless, you will include your findings on the average I.Q. of wizards in your first letter as well as the other data I’ve requested.  I expect it early tomorrow at the latest.” 

Mycroft smiled, and in a fit of rare physical fondness ruffled his brother’s curls. “As you wish.  Now, Sherlock, quickly before I go—I have a promise I require you to make.”  He surreptitiously glanced over the hood of the taxi to ensure his mother was still preoccupied, before leaning down and whispering, “I want you to promise to keep a close eye on Mummy for me.  Behave your absolute best for her!  I fear she is growing unwell, and the last thing she needs is multiple disciplinary calls from your headmaster.”  Sherlock looked furiously indignant at the very  _suggestion_  that he was a disciplinary problem, but Mycroft nipped the rising temper in the bud.  “Please, Sherlock. Promise me.  I’m worried about her, and I know you are as well. She is taking Father’s abandonment so poorly.  She won’t even leave the house anymore, as evidence by this taxicab’s appearance. All I’m genuinely asking is for you to keep me informed about her condition in your return letters. Will you do that for me?” 

The curly-haired child frowned, looking through the cab windows to his mother’s form, and nodded. “Very well.  I promise.” 

“Good.” 

Mycroft and Sherlock ambled back around the cab, continuing to negotiate the frequency of Mycroft’s letters, just as their mother finished haggling with the cabbie. 

“Mycroft, my darling, it is time to say our goodbyes.  Come,” she said airily and held open her arms once more for a hug. “I will count the seconds until we are reunited at Christmas.  You will send your poor mother letters now and then, won’t you?” 

Mycroft placed his arms gently around his mother, giving her a hug that looked nothing like the emotional embrace of before—they were in the public eye, after all. Dignity and decorum were of the utmost importance.  

Mummy patted his back daintily and, after a brief touch of her lips to his forehead, they separated.  “Of course I’ll write, Mummy,” he replied evenly.  “As soon as tomorrow, if you’d like.”  He then turned to his brother, and the pair exchanged a handshake. “Sherlock, I will try to be diligent in the task you have given me.” 

“And I in yours,” Sherlock replied stiffly, ignoring the questioning look Virginia sent their way. 

Mother and youngest son stepped back from the cab, and Mycroft stopped just before lowering himself into the backseat to say, “Goodbye, Mummy.  I shall miss you dearly.  Sherlock—goodbye. Have a good first term at school, and please behave yourself.  I will see you at Christmas.”  He shut the door on his family’s responding goodbyes, and waved all the way down the drive until they turned out into the main road and he could no longer see them. 

Then he curled into himself, closed his eyes, and focused on keeping everything in.  _Just hold it together..._

 

* * *

 

Mycroft was swiftly deposited at the front of King’s Cross Station, all his luggage stacked neatly on a trolley and left to handle it alone.  A normal child would have panicked, but Mycroft had had plenty of time in the cab to choke down all his misery and self-commiseration, so he simply held his head aloft, commandeered his trolley, and strode forward like it was every station employee’s  _privilege_  to see him there. 

He strutted like a peacock all the way to Platform 9 and stood in front of it for a few moments before realising he had no idea how to get onto Platform 9¾ from here. He stuck his nose up even higher in the air, as he tended to do when he became nervous and tried not to draw attention to himself as he stood about in the middle of a busy train station.

He just barely prevented himself from asking Ama for help—he had enough to be getting on with, thank you very much; he didn’t need to be accosted by the security for being on his own and talking to owls on top of it.  And Ama was asleep, anyway, so it wasn’t likely that the bird would supply the information even if asked. 

Okay, deep breaths.  _It is not a hoax, repeat those words.  It. Is. Not. A. Hoax.  You know how the words go, say them aloud: when you’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth_.  What is the improbable?  That magic exists, that he was being allowed to participate in it—and the impossible?  That it DOESNT exist, and everything leading up to this moment has been some elaborate hoax. Why is that impossible? Because he’s eliminated the possibility of the impossible.  How? His first answer would be Dumbledore’s visit, and the things the man had shown him, but that wasn’t it. He hadn’t known for sure then, not entirely.  It wasn’t until Diagon Alley, that first moment stepping into the secret, colorful whirlwind where the very air had tasted of something different and magical and unknown. That was the clincher, the kingpin in the whole experience, the one that had turned a fantasy into the truth. The truth that he was meant to be here, that somewhere very close by was another taste of the magical unknown he was dying for. 

Feeling calmer, Mycroft tackled the problem of Platform 9¾ again.  Though his experience of the magical world had been limited thus far, he’d seen enough to establish a kind of pattern; a formula to the Wizarding World that might be useful in solving the problem.  Secrecy seemed to be their primary objective.  Nearly all the significant bits of magic he’d seen or heard described were being used to keep the wizarding world a secret. The Untraceable and Unplottable nature of Hogwarts; the invisibility of the Knight Bus, and it’s ability to warp any object out of its path; the way everyone’s eyes had slid right over the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron, as if it had been nonexistent … 

 _Epiphany_.

Mycroft turned to look approximately three-quarters of the way from Platform Nine to Platform Ten. As he’d predicted, all that lay between the two was a brick wall.  He recalled the way Sherlock had struggled to see the entrance of the wizard pub, claiming loudly that there was nothing there to  _be_  seen but bricks and mortar …  could it be?  Were wizards the type to use the same trick twice? 

Wizards found a smug sort of pleasure in hiding in plain sight.  Very well then—a plain solution to an obvious problem. He turned his trolley towards the brick barricade, discreetly checked his peripherals for any unwanted attention, and then strode forward with brisk purpose.  He didn’t allow himself to second-guess himself—once a Holmes had made a decision, that was that.  Either he would crash or he wouldn’t.  Simple. 

But he  _didn’t_  crash!  One moment he was eye-to-eye with a bit of graffitied brick and the next—a lively platform full of robed people, children with trunks and owls and cats, and a handsome scarlet train engine, bearing the title Hogwarts Express in gold lettering.  He’d done it! 

He moved away from the barrier, not wanting anyone barreling into him from the other side, and headed towards the train with his luggage, a grin on his face. The air here was as deliciously otherworldly as Diagon Alley’s had been, and his tongue tingled with each new breath sucked in through his grinning teeth.  He could grow addicted to this sensation, he thought.  Most probably, he already was. 

As he walked across the platform, his head was on a swivel, deducing as much as he could about the other people for his first letter to Sherlock.  To his thrill, he experienced the same roadblocks he had encountered with Dumbledore—seeing little indicators on clothing and jewelry that could tell him something, probably would, if  _only_  he could understand what those indicators were! Were those silver speckles on the sleeve of a doting father ink splatters from an exploded paint pen? Or were they splashes of spilled potion?   How delightfully irritating, that he didn’t yet have the requisite knowledge to distinguish between potions and pens. He very much looked forward to seeing those gaps of knowledge filled, and quickly. 

Speaking of differing textures of silver ... he should like to find Gregory Lestrade now. The boy had said that he would see him on the Hogwarts Express.  Perhaps he was saving a compartment for Mycroft! Heartened, the ginger First-Year unloaded his trolley and began the tedious process of dragging all his things aboard by hand, cursing the existence of manual labour.

Inside the train, the scarlet-carpeted corridor outside the compartments was filled with children and pets, all looking to claim a space for themselves and their friends. It seemed the front of the train was most favored.  All the compartments in the first three passenger cars were full to the brim. As Mycroft trekked towards the back of the train, he noticed two trends: the age of the students inside the compartments seemed to decrease, and the number in each car dwindled as well. 

In the penultimate passenger car, Mycroft finally caught sight of the particular shade of silver he’d been keeping an eye out for.  “Gregory!” He called enthusiastically, picking up a bit of a spring to his step as he hurried over to his thus-far  _only_  wizarding friend. 

Gregory had been talking and laughing with a group of people on their way into the middle compartment when his head snapped up at the sound of his name being called. His eyes darted around the train car before zeroing in on Mycroft, looking surprised.  “Oh, um ... hello!” 

All Gregory’s compatriots also glanced at him, taking stock of his expensive clothes and well-made luggage and his public-school accent, and making clear their disdain for perceived wealth.  They stared at him and whispered to each other, and Mycroft absolutely refused to blush in the wake of their negative attentions. 

“Hello, Gregory,” he said when he had reached the group, standing tall, countering their disdain with his arrogant confidence.  “How lovely it is to see you again.”

Greg’s Second-Year friends chittered and giggled at his words.  “Merlin’s beard, Greggy, do you know this ponce?” Said a dark-haired boy on Lestrade’s right.

“’How lovely it is,’ he said,” whispered a long-haired girl by the door. “Sounds a bit precocious don’t he?” But Lestrade turned and told them all to stuff it and get lost, which made a small blossom of warmth unfurl in Mycroft’s chest.  Lestrade’s friends retreated into the compartment, smirking to themselves, slapping Lestrade’s back in a show of casual apology. Lestrade grinned back at them, but Mycroft saw the tension at the corners of his mouth and noted how awkwardly Lestrade seemed to hover by the door.  He frowned. 

“Sorry about that. So, er ... yeah. Nice to see you too. Find the train alright?” Greg asked stiffly. 

“Yes,” Mycroft replied.  “It only took me a few seconds to deduce where the platform would be, and how to get to it.” 

“Oh, good, that’s—good.  Yeah. Sometimes Muggleborns have a hard time of it, you know?  One of my friends, Leery, a Muggleborn like you—his first year, he was stuck wandering the Muggle train station for twenty minutes trying to find somebody who knew what Platform 9 ¾ was, and how to get to it.  Nearly got himself arrested for bein’ a public nuisance,” Greg said with a laugh that was still tinged with awkwardness.  Mycroft furrowed his eyebrows—why was Gregory acting so strangely? Had Mycroft offended him in some way? The silver-haired boy kept glancing at the compartment door, as if desperately wanting to escape through it. 

“To be frank, I was looking for you.  I thought we might sit together on the train,” Mycroft started, stiffening his spine and lifting his nose a bit further into the air.  He was suddenly furious with Gregory, for letting his friends make him feel embarrassed of Mycroft, just because the Holmes’s were wealthier and better educated than them.  “But I see that I have misinterpreted your August sentiments as a serious proposal for friendship.  I beg your pardon for the mistake.  It won’t happen a second time.”

Lestrade looked startled, and then his face flamed with shame, which only made Mycroft angrier. He started to storm off, trying to pull off ‘dignified’ while lugging a massive trunk behind him, when Lestrade’s hand shot out and caught Mycroft under his arm.  His eyes were regretful and pleading all at once as they bore into Mycroft’s.  “Hey, wait, I’m—” 

“Greggy!  _Cum’on_ , the train will leave soon!  Get your arse in here, you twinkly tart!”  His friends kept calling insistently to him, and Gregory cut off, looking torn. 

Mycroft sighed, and pulled his arm out of the Second-Year’s grip.  “Nevermind, Gregory.  Go on; I’ll see you at school.”  He smiled tightly at the other boy. 

With a big grin that screamed relief, Greg saluted him and slipped inside the compartment without another word.  Mycroft had just enough time to hear enthusiastic cheers and roaring laughter before the door slid shut in his face. 

Mycroft  _could_  admit that he was stung. He  _could_  admit he was angry and disappointed.  But that would suggest Mycroft Holmes needed another person’s affection to feel validated, which he absolutely did  _not_. So instead, he lifted his nose in the air again and strutted down the corridor like he owned the whole damned train, looking for another compartment to sit in. 

 _If I happen to fly over him one day, I’ll be sure to aim straight for that bright hair of his_ , Ama hooted scornfully. Mycroft startled, not realising his owl had awoken and then turned his lip corner up in an appreciative smirk. 

“That is disgusting. The sentiment, however, is appreciated.”

 

* * *

In the last passenger car, Mycroft found a compartment that was inhabited by only one other student—a sombre-looking girl who had her nose stuck in a textbook. She looked suitably disinterested to him; he probably wasn’t in much danger of being talked at for hours with her.

He didn’t bother knocking.  He just shouldered open the door and dragged his belongings over the threshold. 

The girl looked up.  She was a slight thing, with long, dark hair that hung over her shoulders as straight as a pin. Her eyes were narrow and vaguely cat-like. “I don’t suppose you’re going to  _ask_  to sit here,” she drawled, her breathy voice pitched low in irritation. 

Mycroft hefted his trunk onto the rack above the seats and bound it down with the available straps.  He sat across from her and put Ama gently beside him.  “No,” he scoffed. 

Mycroft watched as her expression lingered on irritation, slipped into intrigue, and then melted into indifference.  “Fine. Just don’t bother me,” she said, going back to her book. 

“Likewise,” Mycroft replied haughtily.  He crossed his arms and turned his head to stare out the window, decidedly  _not_  sulking, thank you very much. 

Nobody else had invaded their compartment by the time the train rolled out of the station, shuddering and whistling shrilly.  Despite the ambient rattles and clatters of the Hogwarts Express, it was eerily silent in their compartment.  The girl hadn’t even  _glanced_  at him since their tentative agreement; nose stuck deep in her book.  Mycroft stole a peek at the cover, surprised to see the title: _French Witch Culture and its Matriarchal Roots_.  His eyebrows rose, and he regarded her more carefully.  Perhaps he had chosen his companion wisely after all. 

Still, not a single syllable was uttered until the scarlet train was halfway to the Scottish Highlands when at last the young witch shut her book with a snap and sighed heavily. 

“What’s your name, then?” 

Mycroft tried not to sag in relief visibly.  Thank  _God_.  He’d been so utterly bored!  “Mycroft Holmes.  And yours?” 

“Anthea Warrington. Pureblood.  Someday I will be the most powerful witch in the Wizarding world, so it’s an honour for you to meet me.” 

The girl was so conceited and self-absorbed it put Mycroft right at ease, for a moment seeing a little boy with curly hair sitting across from him instead of a scrawny witch.  He couldn’t help his secretive little smile, as he replied, “So it is, Ms Warrington. So it is.” 

Chosen wisely, indeed.


	6. Pigeonhole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is Sorting, unsorting, people are out of sorts and Mycroft learns that it takes all sorts.

Conversation flowed smoothly between Anthea and Mycroft as the train crossed the border into Scotland, the sky growing redder as they approached their destination. Mycroft was very pleased to find her whip-smart and witty, making him smirk in humour on more than one occasion (which, serious as he was, was saying something). The whole displeasure he had felt over the Lestrade incident was entirely forgotten as he sat in that small compartment, sharing a joint purchase of delightfully sweet Cauldron Cakes and Licorice Wands. 

And it was lovely; it really was, until the moment it  _wasn’t._

One little question, asked between bites of cake, was all it took for the atmosphere inside the compartment to become stifling and tense. “So, do your parents have magic as well?” Anthea’s posture was casual, and she was still chewing a bit of cake, but her eyes were sharp and spoke volumes about her level of interest in Mycroft’s response. Mycroft himself swallowed harder than he’d intended and thought very carefully about his answer.

Studying for Hogwarts during the summer, Mycroft had found particular pleasure in reading his History of Magic textbook cover-to-cover. It was fascinating to him to compare Wizarding history with traditional British History, to see what events might have coincided or even outright caused one other. He had learned a lot about Wizarding politics and wars—and if there was one thing he had concluded from that knowledge, it was that the central cause of nearly every Wizarding conflict in the past few centuries was Blood Status. How pure was the magic in one’s blood? How many family members carried wands? From the books, it seemed like the amount of gold in a family’s vault was indicative of that answer. After all, it was the wealthy who could afford to cover up and erase all traces of deviance from the status quo, to buy their way into governing bodies and onto lists of Pureblood lineages, while the middle class were left stuck with their Muggle in-laws and their Squib children. Mycroft remembered having been disillusioned at reaching this conclusion. It took a bit of the veneer off, to realise that even in a world so fantastical and strange as the Wizarding World, there were still class issues and racism abounding. Society never really changed, whether it could do magic or not. 

So how should he answer? Anthea was a Pureblood, part of the Wizarding aristocracy. To her eyes, Mycroft’s social rank would equal a wad of chewed gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe. Good God. The irony was not lost on him, that he had traded in his status as a Muggle aristocrat for a wand as a Wizarding commoner. What could he say to her? He wasn’t fond of the idea of losing another friend before they’d even got to the bloody school. That would be a shade too pathetic for even his tastes. But he could never lie to her, either. Not because of any strict moral compass, goodness no. It’s just that he didn't have the energy to sustain a lie over the next seven years of schooling.

He had no choice. He had to tell the truth. “No, they do not. I am Muggleborn,” he said in his most unaffected tone, yet not quite meeting Anthea’s gaze. He stared out at the scenery whizzing by, waiting nervously for her to pass her judgement on him and deem him unacceptable as a companion. 

To his surprise, she only hummed lightly and took another bite of cake. “Well, despite that tragedy you seem quite intelligent. I’m sure you’ll do fine whichever House you land in—Ravenclaw, by my estimation,” she said, after swallowing. The perfect insulting compliment—it was just like home. “I myself will get Sorted into Slytherin, as is the Pureblood prerogative. Generations of Warringtons bore the silver and green before me. I’d imagine my family’d  _disown_  me if I landed anywhere else—especially in Gryffindor. Nothing but a bunch of Blood-Traitors and Mudbloods in that House, no offence. You’re all right.”

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow imperiously, wondering if he shouldn’t be offended after all. By now it was evident that, though Anthea said such classist things, she didn’t honestly hate Muggleborns herself. A lifetime of exposure to familial prejudice had left her with certain unconscious behavioural cues—ones which could be easily fixed by distance, education, and subtle persuasion. So Mycroft chose instead to be thankful that thoughtless belittling was all he’d have to suffer at her hands. He realised that it could be a lot worse, from crippling verbal abuse to outright physical violence. He imagined, if he stumbled into the wrong crowd at school, he might still experience some of that. He silently vowed to be on his guard. 

“Well, at least there’s that, then. Ravenclaw, you said? I admit to knowing very few details about the Hogwarts Houses, and how one is … Sorted, I think is the term. It is barely referenced in any of the 1st Year textbooks. Would you care to elucidate? You seem very knowledgeable on the subject.”

She did, giving bullet-points of the attributes associated with each House, a little of the Four Founders of Hogwarts, some lore on the most colourful histories of the Wizarding school, and a play-by-play of what to expect during the Sorting Ceremony, according to her older cousin. It made Mycroft a bit nervous, to hear that there would be a verbal quiz and a measure of his “magical percentage,” as Anthea’s cousin had put it. But he had been practising voraciously over the past few weeks and was confident that he could be put into Ravenclaw with all the other clever non-Pureblooded Wizards. (The  _cleverest_  and the  _Purest_  were reserved for the  _great House_  of the  _Serpent,_  the  _all-mighty_  Slytherin. Yes, all hail  _Anthea,_  the Pure and  _Powerful!_  Ugh. Blah, blah, Mycroft was starting to think that even  _Sherlock_  wasn’t this conceited.)

Halfway through her semi-offensive lecture, a tall sixteen-year-old with a shiny silver badge pinned rather obviously to the centre of his chest banged on their compartment door and then slid the door open enough to poke his head in. “We’ll be there in ‘alf an hour, kiddies. Best be gettin’ yer robes on and yer bags at the ready.” 

Mycroft, ever the gentleman, turned his back to Anthea as he pulled his school robes overtop his dress clothes like he had done a thousand times before in front of his mirror. The robes he had purchased were of the highest quality and whispered like silk over his body. Secretly he loved the way he looked in them; the propensity of the fabric to float around his ankles made him look imposing and just the slightest bit etherial. His school uniform, complete with tie and vest, were still in his trunk, not to be worn until tomorrow.  

The train pulled into the station, and Mycroft could hear cheers resounding throughout the many train carriages. He pulled down his own trunk and attempted to help Anthea do so, but was waved away. When they came to a full stop, and the voice of the train engineer came through the air instructing them to disembark (there was no speaker in the compartment or the hallway beyond!) the pair exited together. 

They were in a lonely-looking train platform in the middle of a dark forest. Mycroft looked distastefully around, not being particularly fond of nature. He saw no sign of a castle, nor any school building what-so-ever. 

“They are not expecting us to walk, are they?” Mycroft hissed in Anthea’s ear, disgruntled. “I cannot even see the castle, which means we must be at the very least half a kilometre away.” 

“Don’t be  _lazy,_  Holmes,” Anthea replied condescendingly, and Mycroft scowled. 

“I am  _not_  lazy! I just abhor physical exertion. My energies are much better spent on academic pursuits rather than physical ones.”

Anthea looked dubiously at him and seemed about to make a sarcastic reply when another voice drew their attention. 

“Firs’ years, Firs’ years over ‘ere!” When Mycroft turned and saw the speaker, he may have made a small, tiny, inaudible squawk. Not that he would ever admit it. 

The man was giant, at least as tall as three First Years stacked up one on top of the other. His most prominent feature, other than sheer mass, was a bushy black beard eating up all of his neck, and most of his face as well. It was very dark, curly, and looked tangled beyond the hope of any comb or brush. 

Anthea had to push him to get him moving towards the intimidating man. They joined the edge of a small group of twenty-ish students, all gathering around him. His classmates, Mycroft noted. 

“Hallo, welcome everyone! Come on, gather ‘round, don’t be shy! Name’s Hagrid, and I’m the groundskeeper here at Hogwarts. The other students’ll be goin’ to school by carriage, but we have summit extra-special for Firs’ Years! Come with me!” 

He led them down to a lakeshore, where a fleet of tiny boats waited for them. “Two t’a boat!” Hagrid instructed cheerfully, dragging his own little boat into the water. Mycroft watched with an eyebrow cocked, wondering how on earth the man planned on fitting inside it.

“Come  _on,_  Holmes. Help me with this boat—if you can be  _bothered,”_  Anthea called, and Mycroft grit his teeth. 

“I am  _not lazy,”_  he repeated, but held out his arm for Anthea to use as a balance while stepping into the soggy little craft, as befitting a gentleman. Mummy would have been proud. Rucking up his trouser legs so as not to get them damp, Mycroft pushed the boat a few more centimeters into the water before stepping over the side, tripping into his seat none-too-gracefully. 

Colouring slightly, Mycroft made a show of looking around. “There are no oars. How are we meant to go anywhere?” 

Anthea rolled her eyes at him. “Careful, Holmes. Your Muggle is showing. You really haven’t grasped the concept of magic yet, have you?” No sooner had she spoken, the fleet of tiny vessels shot off across the water on their own, gliding as gracefully and soundlessly as swans across the lake. 

It was thrilling, wonderful, exhilarating—or, it should have been. But motion had never quite agreed with Mycroft, and even though the boat swayed only the tiniest increments he still found himself going green about the gills. What  _was_  with wizards and their need for speed? 

“If you throw up on me, I will hex you just as soon as I know any hexes,” Anthea warned. 

Mycroft opened his mouth, but forgot to say anything as they rounded a bend in the lake to find Hogwarts Castle outlined in the bright moonlight. It was like a fairy tale, like everything he’d every wished for on birthdays, like a thousand pleasant dreams half-remembered in the haze of twilight. It was so large, rising above the treeline like a great beast, all manner of spires and towers sprouting from its back. The windows were lit, and though the night was crisp Mycroft felt warm just looking at it. 

He’d not even stepped inside, and it felt like he was coming home. 

The fleet of boats glided seamlessly to the shoreline, beaching themselves as graceful as sea lions. The castle loomed impossibly large overhead, and there was a small path leading from the lake directly to the castle’s thick double doors. 

“Form a line, now, tha’s it.” He led them up the few stone steps to the door and knocked three times—though, with the size of his fist and the force he used to hit the door, intentional or not, it was more like booming cannon fire than polite knocking. 

A middle-aged woman, tall and severe, opened the door. “Good evening, Hagrid. You are a touch early. No troubles?” 

“Th’ Giant Squid was a right gen'leman,” Hagrid grinned. Mycroft cast an alarmed look back to the lake. A giant  _what_  now?

 _“Move,”_  Anthea hissed, and the little line of First Years was walking into the castle. 

Mycroft got only a brief look into the Entrance Hall before they were shepherded into a small classroom across from a large, grand staircase. But a brief look was all he needed. Simple Anglo-Saxon architecture, prominent in the 10th century, puts the castle’s construction in the early Middle Ages. Disproportionate weight distribution and the awkward number of spires and towers would have collapsed any normal structure, so it was likely built and supported with magic. Mycroft thought it also had to be maintained magically; there was simply not enough wear to the flagstones for a building so old. The large oak doors themselves were as bright as if they’d just been freshly debarked, and yet Mycroft observed from the hitch pins and the threshold that they were original to the castle. So, magically maintained it was. 

“I am Professor Minerva McGonagall, the Transfiguration teacher and Deputy Headmistress. You will wait in here until Hagrid comes to fetch you, and then we will begin the Sorting Ceremony. You will not make a ruckus if you please.” 

When the door clicked shut, one of the stockier First Years was heard to whisper, “Cripes, her bun’s too tight or summat.” There was a spattering of nervous laughter. 

Anthea was quiet in front of Mycroft, and he was likewise still. He retreated briefly into his mind, reviewing information and quizzing himself on all he’d learned from his textbooks in preparation for the Sorting Ceremony’s verbal test. He was confident that he would do well. Ravenclaw seemed inevitable if intelligence was the signature trait. 

The group of First Years waited for a total of fifteen minutes before Professor McGonagall, and not Hagrid, once again opened the door looking harried and irritated. “For goodness sakes, what are you all still doing here? You’re late for your own Sorting, you’ve missed the Sorting Hat’s song. Spit-spot!” She rushed them through a smaller set of double doors that led into a large, brightly-lit chamber, near deafening with the amount of students sat at four long tables, having near-shouting conversations. The Four Houses, Mycroft deduced. 

There were a thousand candles lighting the hall, floating unassisted through the air, and the chamber had no ceiling—rather, there  _was_  a ceiling, but it was enchanted and seemed to contain the night sky within it. The tops of the supporting arches and the vaulted stone were just visible through the spattering of ink-black and blinking stars. 

At the front of this Great Hall, was another table resting longways on a raised stair; Mycroft saw Dumbledore immediately as well as the remainder of the faculty and staff. (Hagrid was there, looking quite sheepish.) In front of this faculty table was a lone stool, upon which rested a particularly ragged hat.

“Line up across here, there you are. Welcome to the Sorting Ceremony. When I call your name, kindly take a seat on this stool, and I will place the Sorting Hat on your head. When you have been Sorted, move to your respective tables.” 

 _What?_   No oral test? Perhaps the Sorting Hat was the measurer of magical percentage, but Mycroft very much doubted it. “Your cousin is a bully,” he muttered unhelpfully to Anthea, who ignored him. But she didn’t look terribly pleased herself, so at least there was some hope of retribution towards said cousin. 

McGonagall took her place behind the stool, a piece of parchment in her hand. “Let’s begin. Adler, Icarus.” 

A fine, lanky boy with rosy cheeks and mischievous eyes loped up to the stool and sat confidently atop it. Mycroft figured him for a Slytherin, from his noble features and plain arrogance. 

“SLYTHERIN!” A voice shouted—Mycroft was rather startled to hear it coming from a mouth-like rip in the Sorting Hat. 

“Good God, it talks. A hat is talking. Is that a … common thing in the Wizarding World?” He whispered to Anthea, unable to resist. 

Anthea gave him an unreadable look and said flatly, “What, haven’t your robes commented on the size of your bum yet? Strange.” She looked away. Mycroft had to resist using his Silver Tongue to taste the hidden intent in those words, to make sure she was joking. He hoped she was joking.

A few more students were Sorted into Hufflepuff and Gryffindor, respectively. Farrow, Matilda went into Gryffindor, and Hanlen, Katherine went to Ravenclaw, and then it was Mycroft’s turn.

“Holmes, Mycroft!”

Swallowing, with no visible or audible support from Anthea, Mycroft walked as gracefully as he could to the stool and sat down, internally wincing when it creaked under him. He had just a moment to look out to see a hundred gazes upon him before the hat was put on his head and the wide brim slipped over his eyes. 

“Well, stick a pin in me and call me a quilt. Would you look at that,” a creaky voice sounded, not in Mycroft’s ear but within his very mind. He shivered and suppressed the urge to leap off the stool and far away from this invasive hat. 

“Well, well, what a surprise you are, Mr. Holmes. Such a broad mind, one of the largest I’ve seen in my centuries-long history. Very nicely compartmentalized, you have an excellent organizational system here. Hmm …” 

The hat paused, and Mycroft got the feeling it was rummaging around in his mind, looking for things. It was profoundly disturbing. 

“There can be no question of your intelligence. A proper genius, I’d say. And if that were all, I’d Sort you to Ravenclaw and be done with it. But that’s not all by half. I see such thirst in you, Mr. Holmes. A thirst to prove your intelligence. A thirst for importance, for influence, for power over others. And you were given a Silver Tongue because of that thirst; or perhaps you were already possessed of it, and became this way as a direct result. Either way, you have been quenching your thirst with the Silver Tongue but it is like a cup riddled with holes; the more you fill it up, the emptier it becomes, and the thirstier you grow. You have temporarily halted your habits at Dumbledore’s request but you miss it, and even the new wonders of the Wizarding World can scarcely distract you from the emptiness you feel in your mind where the power and the words once flowed. Speaking to the animals doesn’t help; you miss the complexity of the human brain, the vastness of the human capacity for emotion.” 

Mycroft is breathless, he doesn’t know what he’d been expecting but it wasn’t this,  _never_  this. He was being dissected from the inside, grabbed and shaken so hard all his secrets were tumbling out, and he couldn’t get the breath to form a protest. 

“Intelligence, and incredible ambition. A knack for politics, especially when using your Silver Tongue as a weapon of manipulation, and yet fully capable without it. You can be resourceful and very cunning. You have a singular goal, it’s all mapped out here in your head, where you want to be in five years, in ten years, in twenty. This goal ... it was everything for you, wasn't it? A shining beacon, aimed for with such singular focus.  But look at  _that,_  it's not as bright anymore.  It's been knocked askew—well, finding out you're a Wizard will do that to long-term plans, I suppose.” 

Mycroft managed to exhale, but not much else. In the world outside the floppy brim covering his eyes, he heard people become restless. McGonagall pointedly cleared her throat. 

“Oh, dear me, I’ve got carried away. Your mind is just too fascinating, Mr. Holmes. My point is that you are the biggest Serpent I have come across since Salazar Slytherin himself, and so I say SLYTHERIN!” 

The last word was shouted across the Great Hall for all to hear. McGonagall yanked the hat off his head and shooed him none-too-subtly off in the direction of the table dressed in green and silver, whose occupants were clapping none-too-enthusiastically, not that Mycroft noticed. Feeling a bit like he was in shock, he wandered over to the Slytherin table in a daze and sat down next to Icarus Adler. 

But Icarus leant dramatically away from him, and said with a sneer, “I don’t think so, Mudblood. Move down a chair; you are NOT stinking up my robes with that Muggle smell."  Mycroft's head slowly rotated in the boy's direction. 

Really, the elder Holmes could only take so much so soon. Dumbledore would  _have_  to forgive him for his lack of restraint. He could blame it on the shock if he must. 

“No.  This seat is fine. You  _want_  me to sit next to you. You  _like_  the way I smell, and you rather like  _me.”_  

A strange look passed over Icarus’s face, and then he sat regularly in his chair. “That seat’s fine. Actually, I wanted you to sit next to me, I rather like you.” He sniffed, frowned, and then leaned down to sniff at Mycroft’s collar. “You smell good. Is that cologne?” 

Mycroft rolled his eyes and pushed the other boy away. “Oh, shut up.” 

“I’m Icarus, Icarus Adler—awful name, I know—nice to meet you.” He held out a hand for Mycroft to shake, which he did begrudgingly.

“Mycroft Holmes.” 

Adler grinned a Cheshire grin. “Myc, huh? Alright then.” 

Trying and failing to suppress a twitch at that horribly plebian nickname, Mycroft turned his attentions away from his enchanted friend just in time to catch “Warrington, Anthea” take the stool. 

“SLYTHERIN!” The hat called after a moment’s pause, and Anthea approached the table with a smug look on her face. Unlike Mycroft’s welcome, the Slytherins were warm towards her and genuinely seemed happy to see her at their table. 

“Black, Avery, hello. Katherine, so nice to have had you over last month. Christmas? Yes, that’s lovely. And look, Wilkes is joining us too, it’ll really feel like Christmas with all of us here!”

Anthea was cooly animate in a way Mycroft had not seen before as she made her rounds, a stocky, oily boy by the name of Sebastian Wilkes joining her halfway through. 

When she reached Mycroft, she gave him a narrowed stare before sitting down across from him. Wilkes had slunk away to a different spot further down, giving Mycroft a nasty look. 

“Well, Holmes, this is certainly a surprise.” 

Fending off Adler, who was sniffing at him again, Mycroft very nearly lost his temper. “Ms Warrington, spare me the Pureblood theatrics. I’m not in a humoring mood. And for God’s sake, why is everyone _looking_  at me like that?” He could  _feel_  all their eyes, now that he was paying attention.  He didn't need his Silver Tongue to be able to tell that they looked down on him, and didn't want him there.  Their judgemental gazes were burning holes into his back from all along the table.  

Looking highly unimpressed at his outburst, Anthea said, “Because of  _Pureblood theatrics_ , as you called them. This is the House of the Noble Serpent, the Pureblood’s domain. The oldest and wealthiest Wizarding families are represented at this table. We believe in the Purity of Magical Blood and the superiority of the Wizarding race, it’s what we’re known for. And then suddenly a Mudblood, which goes against all our ideals, comes waltzing in? You’re an usurper. You are threatening the status quo. I mean really, a Mudblood in Slytherin? What was that silly hat thinking?” 

Mudblood,  _Mudblood, **Mudblood.**_  It hadn’t really bothered Mycroft at first, not having been born into this world of magic and Wizardry and therefore not being born with their social values. But it was starting to sink in, that this was a  _classist_  slur of all things, an insult to his name and his upbringing, and he was quickly tiring of hearing it. He was a  _Holmes,_  a family just as old and wealthy as any of the families here. He had pride, dammit! 

He made his second slip of the night. “Ms Warrington, you will  _not_  use the term Mudblood in reference to me any longer. In fact, you will not use it at all. It is tactless and ignorant.” 

That same vacant expression that had passed over Icarus’s face passed across Anthea’s, and in a split second, she regarded Mycroft carefully. “You know, Holmes, it’s strange but I … I feel I should refrain from calling you that word. I suddenly feel like it is tactless of me, and makes me sound ignorant and unmodern.” 

Feeling placated, Mycroft began to turn to face the head table, where Headmaster Dumbledore was just starting to make his way to the podium. However, just as he turned, he caught Anthea leveling a considering stare in his direction. “Hm,” she hummed softly, and it was a very worrying kind of hum. Was she … suspicious of her new opinion? Did she somehow sense that she had been magically manipulated? Mycroft found himself swallowing uneasily. It was very rare that someone was able to break through his ability, but when they did … it was never a good thing. 

He’d have to keep his eye on the situation. This could prove to have been a fatal mistake. 

“Welcome, all, to another year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It is time to replace all the knowledge that the bright summer sun has bleached from your brains! Before any of that, of course … we feast! Make merry! Reunite with lost friends! Make new ones! Gorge ourselves in a glorious gluttony! Fill our bellies and hearts to the brim with good cheer!” 

The hall was deafening for a time, full of unruly students who cheered loudly at Dumbledore’s words. Except for the people around his table, Mycroft noticed, who only clapped politely and shot irritating glances at the red-and-gold table, who were the loudest. 

“But…!” The Headmaster waited until everyone had settled down. “But, as usual, there are a few announcements before we begin. For our First Years, a word of caution. The Forbidden Forest, at the edge of the grounds, is—as always—forbidden. Filch, our caretaker, has posted a list of banned items outside his office, it is recommended that you read it and dispose of any contraband forthwith.” 

His eyes, becoming strangely serious, peered out at the students over his half-moon glasses. “These are changing times. We cannot pretend that the relationship between particular groups of wizards isn’t turbulent, and steadily worsening. That the relations between the Magical and Non-Magical are any better.” His eyes tracked along the entire length of the Slytherin table. “Allow me then to sow some seeds of wisdom amongst my passionate students. 

“Here at school, as in life, there will be many questions that need answering. Questions like, what kind of hat shall I wear today? Which muffin should I eat first? Which homework assignment should accidentally fall out of the Astronomy Tower window?” He paused, waiting out the laughter that had broken out, in particular among the more mischievous students. “Which rules should I follow, which rules should I break? Which responsibilities should I shoulder, which should I shake off? In whom shall I place my trust, my loyalties? Who will care enough to keep them, treasure them?” 

No one was laughing now.

“Whichever you choose, remember—all choices have consequences. Muffins can have hidden raisins. Homework can be reassigned. Breaking rules can result in punishment. Shrugging off responsibilities can make them land on someone else with weaker shoulders.” 

Dumbledore’s eyes suddenly met Mycroft’s, and the ginger held his breath. “So before you ask yourselves these and other critical questions, understand this: are you fully prepared for the consequences these answers will be wrought?” 

Mycroft exhaled sharply. It was almost as if Dumbledore  _knew_ … but no. That was impossible. Wasn’t it? 

Dumbledore said something else, in a much cheerier voice, and food suddenly appeared on the tables, stacked in heavenly piles and smelling succulent and gourmet. But even Mycroft, who secretly enjoyed food more than was wise for his waistline, couldn’t enjoy it properly with this feeling sitting heavily in his gut. An ominous feeling, as Anthea ignored him except to shoot him suspicious glances and Icarus became less and less subtle about his sniffing, that things were about to go quite royally pear-shaped.

Almost a given, then, that the pastry he’d chosen for dessert had been inedible due to surprise raisins.

 

* * *

 

“Come along Firsties; you don’t wanna get lost down here. They wouldn’t find you again until you were already skulls and bones.” Mycroft curled his lip in distaste of the irritating Slytherin Prefect, who was herding the First Years down into the dungeons of the castle with an over-emphasized dramatic flair that was wholly unnecessary.

After many twists and turns in the labyrinth that was the castle dungeons, Mycroft memorising the directions almost absently, the group abruptly stopped by a damp, unremarkable stone wall.

“Hope you were all paying attention! This is the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room and Dormitories, where you will live during your seven years at Hogwarts. It requires a password to open. Aw, how cute, some of you look confused. I see you noticed that there is no portrait, no enchanted stone gargoyle or statue to whisper to.”

Several First Years looked around stupidly as if they hadn’t noticed that at  _all._  Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“Have you ever heard the mantra, ‘walls have ears?’” Continued the theatrical Prefect. “Well, this wall has itself a pretty pair, so all you need to do is speak the password aloud in it’s direction and it’ll hear you.” 

He spun towards the wall with a dramatic flourish and whispered,  _“Marvolo.”_  Almost immediately, there was a little “snk” sound, and a door that was once previously indistinguishable from the wall around it slid open, allowing the group access to the room beyond. 

The Slytherin Common Room put Mycroft in mind of a cave almost immediately, with rough stone walls and green-tinted lighting. Dark, oddly echoing, slightly damp, but very beautiful. Green lanterns hung from the ceiling on chains, and there was a fireplace on the back wall. Above the roaring fire was a stone mantelpiece so intricately carved that it had to have been done by magic, or else a toddler that was also a stone carver prodigy. 

“The password to enter will change every fortnight. For new passwords and other important House business, please regularly check the notice boards by the stone door.” 

A curly-headed older girl who had been lounging on one of the green button-tufted leather sofas suddenly stood and approached the group of First Years, a wicked smile on her face. “Alright, Ebbs, I’ll take it from here. Curtain’s closed, go take five.” 

Scowling, the Prefect nonetheless took his leave with a dramatic huff, going over to a group of friends by the fire. 

“Listen up, First Years. I’m Aurora, and I’d like to give you a proper welcome to Slytherin House. For the next seven years at Hogwarts, we will be your family. Slytherin is a noble House. It’s members are more tightly bonded than any other House in the castle. Once you’re in Slytherin, you’re in for life. We take care of our own, and we watch each other’s backs. 

“We have to. I have to inform you now that, according to the rest of the world, you drew the short end of the stick. Slytherins are not popular, period. You’ll be heading out there with a significant disadvantage, with other students and even the teachers. The world plays favourites, and we are no one’s. All because of our so-called reputation. 

“We’ve turned out some people the world considers “bad.” I don’t know about you, but I think the world has forgotten what really makes a Slytherin a Slytherin. Nobility! Purity! Ambition!—that is what sets us apart, what gets us through that stone door. Gryffindors have their bravery, Ravenclaws their smarts—well, we have our cunning and our determination to succeed. We are ambitious and clever and focused on our goals. There is little Slytherins can’t achieve once we’ve set our minds to something.  _That_  is what makes you a serpent. Not a mean streak, not a propensity for the Dark Arts, not an evil gene that’s somehow passed around like the flu—that’s what they’ll all say, out there, which is why we gotta stick together. Be the best you can be and support each other, and we’ll come out on top. We always do.” 

The entire Common Room burst into enthusiastic applause, with cheers more boisterous than that heard at the Start-of-Term Feast. Aurora curtsied, grinning, and then called back out to Ebbs. “Right, enough speeches! Off to bed, Firsties. Ebbs, you take the boys. Girls, your rooms are through here, follow me!” 

Anthea left the group without even a glance at Mycroft; he regretted his loss of control even more as he watched her go. Could he not hold onto a single friend? He had a feeling he would really need one, in this place.

 

On the left-hand side of the room, there was a stone staircase that spiralled up quite a distance, frequently branching off into neat little dormitories, each with five beds and a fireplace. Beds had already been assigned, and they were to look in each First Year dormitory to find their trunks and belongings. Mycroft found his things in a room midway up the staircase, resting against the foot of an emerald-green four-poster bed closest to the window, but furthest from the fireplace. Ama was in his wicker cage on top of the trunk, wide awake and grumpy. 

 _About time, you plucked little mammal! Let me out of this cage at once!_  He hooted loudly, as soon as he saw his caretaker come in. 

“Oh, that’s a wild one, isn’t it?” Icarus’s voice sounded from the dormitory door, and Mycroft was dismayed to see him take the bed directly next to his own. “Bit strange that it’s here, though. Usually, they let the birds out when they take our belongings in, or so I’ve heard. There’s an Owlery in one of the spires; they let the birds go there to roost.” 

Mycroft looked at Ama and was quite able to understand what might’ve gone wrong. “He’s rather a feisty thing. He may have bitten whoever tried to get him out of his cage.” 

 _Of course, I bit the grabby little thing_ ; Ama hooted, but Mycroft ignored him. He had promised himself that the whole talking-to-animals thing was going to remain a secret.

Mycroft made his way over to the window, but found no latch or lock to open it. “Hm, this window doesn’t open for some reason.” He peered out into the night, but could see neither star nor moon in the inky blackness. But it was strange … there was some sort of low, ambient noise coming from outside, like a wind but thicker and heavier. He’d noticed it out in the Common Room as well. 

Icarus gave a curious little laugh and said, “Well, if it did that would be rather catastrophic, don't you think?” Just as he said this, a little wriggling form sailed past the window, right by Mycroft’s nose, illuminated by the candles and the fire from within. 

A  _fish._  

“…Oh.” Being completely submerged underwater would be a fantastic reason for not including a latch on the window. He shot a glance at Ama, hoping the owl understood that it was not getting out tonight without Mycroft having to use his Silver Tongue to communicate. 

Mycroft unpacked a set of pyjamas from his trunk, and laid them out on his bed. After visiting the boy’s loo to wash and clean his teeth, Mycroft dressed with the hanging curtains pulled tight around his bed. He fished out some parchment paper and dragged Ama’s owl cage inside with him as he set out to pen his first letter to Sherlock. 

“Sorry, Ama, but you won’t be able to go outside until tomorrow,” he whispered as quietly as he could, using his Silver Tongue to imbue every syllable with a meaning that the bird could understand. “You’ll have your very first delivery to make by then,” he added. 

 _Fine. Just don’t bother me too often with petty requests like that. I’m more than just a common mail owl, you know._  

“Hey, Mudblood, keep that troll of an owl quiet! Some of us are trying to sleep!” A nasty voice that Mycroft vaguely recognized as Wilkes’ sounded from across the room. 

“That’s dandy, so long as you keep your trollish  _snoring_  to a minimum, Sebby!” Icarus replied playfully, and the other two boys laughed. Mycroft smiled, thinking that perhaps he had underestimated Icarus Adler. Though an accident, magically acquiring the boy’s friendship might not have been a bad thing after all. 

Still smiling, Mycroft put quill to paper.

 

* * *

  

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I apologise that this letter will reach you long after the ETA that was previously agreed-upon for this correspondence. I had anticipated sending Amadeus out to you tonight, but upon inspecting the window discovered that my new dormitory resides under a lake! Instead of fog and birds and wind drifting by my window, I see instead little schools of fish, and hear the water’s currents, and it is very strange and beautiful!_  

 _Since I doubt Ama can swim, you will have to wait to receive this tomorrow. I hope it finds you well, in a pleasant mood after a wonderful first day of school. I am hoping it finds Mummy well also; please do not forget to keep me informed of her condition. Stay with her when you are able, don’t neglect her, and be on your best behaviour. I do worry._  

 _This castle, Hogwarts Castle, is the most spectacular sight I have seen in my brief eleven years of life.  It is like no other castle in Britain or anywhere else for that matter.  It was created magically, and I’ve come to learn that that makes for rather more_  leeway, _regarding architectural design.  I wish you could have seen it with me, but no matter.  You will see it yourself someday._  

 _Tonight, during the start-of-term Feast, I was Sorted into the proper Hogwarts House (you remember those, from my history books). I was told that I was clever, cunning, and exceedingly ambitious and that those were traits belonging to a Slytherin. So now I am here in the dungeons of the castle where my House is located, underneath a lake, where our House colours of green and silver shimmer with each shift of the lake waters._  

 _I’ve drawn you a diagram of my Common Room. I cannot claim that the dimensions I have given are one-hundred-percent accurate, as they are only estimations based on my memory, but they should be relatively close. Notice the fish I have drawn in the windows. The rendering of the Grayling of which I am particularly proud._  

_I have made two friends, one quite on accident. Icarus Adler, a funny sort of boy with a scent fixation; and Anthea Warrington, who is one of those girls whom you cannot tell if they like you or not because they are still mulling it over. I haven’t much hope for the former. My magical education starts tomorrow, so I haven’t much hope for any sleep, either.  I’m much too excited.  You would be horrified at the sight of my grin right now._

_Now, brother mine, I must bid you farewell, for it is late, and my candle is the only one still burning. I will explain the finer details of the Sorting Ceremony in my next letter, as well as answer any questions that you have based on this letter’s contents. I look forward to hearing from you soon._  

_Your brother,_

 

_Mycroft_

 

_PS—Unfortunately, it is my duty to admit that you were right.  Wizards are no smarter than regular people, and I find myself still a minority in intellectual class.  It is disappointing that possessing magic couldn't have improved them in this way, but oh well.  It takes all sorts._

 


End file.
